


The Sacred Geometry of Chance

by bricoleur10



Series: Shape of My Heart [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: All The Tropes, Alternate Universe - No Zombies, Angst, Angsty!Almost-Teenage Carl, Blow Jobs, Detective!Rick, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Sexual Content, First Meetings, Friendly!Neighbor Glenn, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Mechanic!Daryl, Past Child Abuse, Past Daryl Dixon/Paul "Jesus" Rovia, Reluctantly!Domestic Daryl, Rick Grimes/Daryl Dixon - Freeform, Romance, Slow Burn, Tropes, Tropetastic - But Don't Worry I Embrace It, Versatile!Rickyl, parenting, tragic backstories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 04:12:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 154,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5360945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bricoleur10/pseuds/bricoleur10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick's a small town Deputy Sheriff who relocates to Atlanta after the death of his wife and best friend. Daryl's a good old fashioned Southern hick who's landed just far enough away from rural Georgia to give his demons a run for their money. They both have scars they'd rather hide and realities they don't always know how to face; they're broken, of course they are. But no one ever said that two broken pieces couldn't make a whole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How it Starts

**Author's Note:**

> So, here we go, guys: Just a little Rickyl AU to get us through the hiatus and holiday season. 
> 
> And by "little" what I actually mean is "probably the longest thing I've ever written in my life". But, y'know, semantics. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**The Sacred Geometry of Chance**

_***  
“When you're a kid they tell you it's all 'grow up. Get a job. Get married. Get a house. Have a kid' and that's it. But the truth is, the world is so much stranger than that. It's so much darker. And so much madder. And so much better.” - Doctor Who  
***_

***  
***

“If being a detective is a better job, why do you work such shitty hours?”

Next to the genuine curiosity and repressed angst lies just a smidgen of challenge. Rick sighs heavily. He wishes that his son's inappropriate language was the worst byproduct of their recent circumstances.

“Carl, watch your mouth.” He says it with very little heat, and when the almost-teenager just rolls his eyes in response, Rick doesn't press it.

“All new jobs, even better ones, come with drawbacks,” he explains, hoping that even if his son's not acting very interested – listlessly poking at his congealing cereal with a fork – he's listening all the same. If not for the functionality of their lives now, then at least for Carl's own working knowledge of the world in later life. “Less than ideal hours is one of them.”

“You know latchkey kids are more likely to experiment with drugs and alcohol.” Carl's voice is dripping with disdain and irony, but as a parent Rick can't help but take his words at face value.

He pauses what he'd been doing, tie still half-crooked in the wavy reflection cast by the toaster. “Is that your way of telling me you wanna do some kind of after school activity?” Carl's face distorts in distaste, but Rick presses on. “Maybe a sport? You always liked soccer.”

“I always liked soccer with you and _Shane_.” Carl bites, effectively silencing Rick and simultaneously sending a burst of white hot pain through the center of his gut.

He's always been amazed at how easily kids can find the heart of something and slice right through it.

“Well, if you change your mind...” he trails off, feeling utterly and completely useless as Carl does nothing more to acknowledge him than continually jab at his parody of breakfast.

Twenty minutes later finds Rick fully dressed in a suit he'd never worn more than once or twice a year before moving to Atlanta. His hair is clean and short, though not styled – per the helpful opinion of their new neighbor (well, if neighbor is the correct term for someone who lives in the same apartment building as you). Rick has some theories about said new neighbor's sexuality (he's been unusually helpful on matters of personal appearance and the like, but maybe that's just stereotyping) and secretly thinks he's been so available to the newest additions to his complex because he wants...

Then again, that doesn't really matter, does it? Rick's in short supply of friends these days, and he's not gonna go knocking the ones that fall in his lap, no matter what their intentions.

“Look, I should be home before you go to bed.” Rick says to the back of Carl's head. “If you need anything call me. Or ask Glenn.”

Carl smiles a little at the mention of the younger man, and even though he quickly tries to cover it up, seeing it makes something in Rick's gut loosen just a little. He'll be okay, Rick thinks – as long as he still knows how to be happy, everything will be okay eventually.

“I get it, dad,” his kid snaps, maybe to make up for the almost-smile. “I'm not a baby.”

“No,” Rick agrees with a sigh. “You're definitely not that anymore.”

***

Rick still remembers the day his father had first brought home the Charger.

“Ten years old,” his old man had said with a grin. “Same age as you, Ricky-boy.” He'd pointed this out while ruffling his son's hair, making the child squirm and laugh.

His mom had been less thrilled with the purchase. “Thought you said you were gonna buy something less than five years old.” She'd stood there in the kitchen doorway with her hands on her hips, a pose Rick remembers vividly from countless different situations throughout his childhood.

“Yeah, honey, but the guy was just givin' her away.” Rick's dad had sounded so sure. “I can take the money we saved and fix 'er up. They don't make 'em like this anymore.”

“And for good reason, probably.” His mom had huffed, but in the end the car had stayed.

Of course, it hadn't _run_.

For the whole of Rick's adolescent life that Charger had remained in their garage. “Jus' one more tune-up,” his father was fond of saying. Or, “Gonna get the right filter from Nappa this weekend.”

Rick remains fairly certain to this day that his father hadn't known anything about working on cars.

For his 65th birthday, though, his mom had colluded with most of their family and managed to sneak the car away for half a week so a real mechanic could fix it up. “Because I'll be damned if we don't take that thing for at least one drive before we die.” She'd explained to him, leaving her husband no room to be anything other than grateful.

Her timing had been good, too. They'd both died within three years of that birthday.

Rick still drives the car today; not so much because he can't afford a new one, but because he likes the history of this one.

It feels like every conversation he'd ever had with his dad had been done over the hood of this Charger. Every piece of advice. Every hidden tear. Every time his father had been there for him it had been right there, with this car. Hell, Carl had said his first word in this car.

Lori hadn't liked it, of course. Didn't think it was safe, hated how loud it got, wouldn't ride in it at all. Shane had gotten so used to it over the years, especially after the elder Grimes had died, that it hadn't been anything special. They had spent most of their time in Shane's truck or squad cars, anyway. So, in that way, the Charger feels like a piece of his past that's disconnected from all of the bad stuff. It's got his dad in it, his mom a little bit, and his son; everything else had stayed away.

Every time Rick gets behind the wheel he feels like he's escaping all the bad parts of his past, if only for a little while.

Which is why it's a real blow that afternoon when he goes to start her up and instead of the comforting sound of a rumbling engine, he's met instead with a crack louder than a gunshot and a white plume of smoke erupting from the tailpipe.

His stomach drops out from under him, and after he tries and fails a few times to rev the engine something hot and burning settles there. He thinks he might cry – just burst into sobs like a little boy. Or vomit. Or punch something. He thinks maybe if he does all of those things, if he does them for long enough, then maybe he'll rid himself of this thing that's been eating at him ever since he'd moved here. Maybe, just maybe, if he destroys everything around him, if he takes a crowbar to the Charger, if he rips himself open from the inside out, then he'll finally remember how to be okay.

“Hey.” Glenn's voice cuts through his self-pity, and Rick takes several deep breaths and hauls himself out of the car.

“Hey,” Rick smiles a little at the Asian man who'd just pulled up in the spot next to him. He drives some light green hatchback that definitely wasn't made in America and is probably a hundred times more reliable than anything you might typically find in the almost-rural suburbs where Rick had grown up.

“I'm guessing all that smoke isn't part of some new fireworks display the department is putting on?” Glenn jokes lightly, yet real sympathy shines bright in his eyes.

Yeah, Rick decides. This kid could be gayer than Elton John, if he wants to be Rick's friend, the detective sure as hell isn't gonna knock that. Even if it does scare him.

“Any chance you know a place 'round here that'd work on something like this?” He knows from past experience that newer shops, commercial ones, don't like working, or can't work, on something as old as his Charger. He'd found one that'll do tire maintenance for him, but they won't touch the engine. Rick had learned how to do an oil change on YouTube.

And he doubts that whatever's wrong with his car now is something he'll be able to figure out via Google.

Glenn's expression morphs into exactly the mask of regret and sympathy that Rick had been expecting at his question. “Sorry, man. Cars aren't really my thing.”

A silence passes between them as Rick stares forlornly at the Charger and Glenn chews at his lip, no doubt trying to come up with some kind of solution. Kid's a big problem solver, Rick had noticed that much right away.

“I can give you a lift to work.” The younger man finally offers, apparently deciding that short-term action was the best way to start.

Rick chuckles a little, though he's not sure why. Maybe because it's either that or cry, and he doesn't much like the thought of doing that on Glenn's shoulder – less because the kid might have a crush on him and more because he's known him for all of two months.

“Yeah,” Rick accepts. “That'd be good.”

**

When he gets to the office, Morgan takes one look at his expression and wordlessly hands him the coffee he'd just fixed himself, which had been the last in the pot. Rick accepts it gratefully, and as Morgan goes about setting up another pot (he's one of the only senior detectives that'll do it himself) he asks, “Wanna tell me why you look like someone kicked your dog this morning?”

Rick fills the older man in on his car trouble, deciding that it's actually a nice change of pace from his usual concerns over Carl.

“Well, I ain't a car guy myself,” Morgan says regretfully; by the time Rick's done telling his tale the two of them are halfheartedly finishing up yesterday's paperwork. “But...” he trails off and turns in his chair. “Hey, Ford!”

At Morgan's shout, a detective that Rick's interacted with only a handful of times since he'd been here saunters over. Besides being built like a wrestler and having the most shocking red hair Rick's ever seen on anyone in real life, Detective Ford holds himself like a military general (and for good reason, if the pictures on his desk tell an accurate tale).

“Whaddya want, Jones?” Ford demands gruffly when he reaches them, but there's an affection in his gaze that makes Rick think the two are actually quite close.

“Where do you take that rusted piece a junk you call an antique to get worked on?”

“Didn't anyone ever tell ya the fastest way to get shot is to insult a man's truck?” Ford growls and crosses his arms.

“Yes.” Rick can't help but answer, and squares his shoulders when his response gets Ford's attention on him. “Gotta be ready for a fight, and probably a bad one, if you ever wanna insult a man's truck. That's what my dad used to tell me, anyway.”

“Grimes,” Ford acknowledges him with a nod. Their interactions thus far have have been filled with mutual professional decorum, but the man's looking at him now like he's considering something brand new. “Where'd you transfer from again?”

“King County, a couple months back.” Rick tells him. This man reads rough around the edges, though no more so than most other army men he's met over the years. And if Morgan trusts him, that's got him half a step ahead in Rick's book already.

“I spent my beat cop years a county over from that. Deacon Hills.” He tells him, and Rick's reminded that the world's always smaller than it seems. “You get some rough folks down around those parts, don't ya?”

Rick makes a noncommittal sound and decides not to mention that most of the rough folks Ford is referring to had lived, worked, and played about ten miles outside of Rick's jurisdiction, and while they had gotten the occasional bleed over from _that_ part of town, they'd mostly been incidents that had been resolved quickly and usually without much bloodshed. Though, considering his history, Abraham Ford probably knows that already.

“You the reason he's over here hatin' on my baby blue?” Ford asks, nudging Morgan's shoulder. Rick assumes the name is a reference to the color of the man's truck. “I know Jones don't drive nothin' more interesting than a three-year old Civic.”

“My car don't break down every other Sunday.” Morgan bites back.

Ford laughs loudly, and the man's got a deep-down kind of belly laugh that's strictly reserved for the truly happy. “Always said my little brother had something to do with that. We fixed it up when we were kids. Hasn't run but one Sunday a month since the last time we dropped the engine, and not even Dixon can figure out why.”

“Dixon?” Rick perks up. Ford raises a questioning eyebrow. “I got a '76 Charger that up and quit on me this morning. Haven't had a chance to find a mechanic since I've been in town.”

“Surprised you don't know Dixon already,” Ford looks at him with a hefty amount of curiosity and just a little bit of doubt. “He grew up 'round your parts.”

“How old is he?” Rick asks, trying to suss out where the other man is going with this.

Ford's face softens. “I guess not much younger'an you, come to think of it. 'Member him smaller, 'cause I knew 'im way back.”

“He the guy to go to for something like that?” Morgan asks, breaking the marginally awkward silence that drifts between them.

“Oh yeah.” Ford chuckles like any other answer would be plain stupid. “He works an A&A's, just a little bit outside the city. Tow'll cost ya a fortune, but ain't nobody else gonna be able to fix ya right 'round here.”

“That's...that's the best news I've heard all day.” Rick lets out a breath, thinking that he means those words more than he's meant anything in a damn long while.

Ford nods once and then shares a quick look with Morgan before bouncing back to Rick. “I'll give ya the address, and I'll let Dale know you're comin', but it might do ya well to not tell Dixon exactly how ya heard about the place.”

This statement is confusing to Rick, which he makes no effort to hide from the older men in front of him.

“We got a complicated relationship, me an' Dixon. And that boy's got a temper, and a stubborn streak wider than the Mason-Dixon's line's long.”

Rick just stares at Detective Ford for a moment, trying to parse out how much, if any, bullshit resides in those words. Not a lot, if the former deputy-sheriff's instincts are anything to go by.

“But he's good, right?”

“Son,” Ford chuckles, “he's better than the best.”

Rick nods with renewed determination. It's been a while since he's made a wholly good decision, but his gut is telling him that this is one he won't regret. “Then he's exactly who I need.”

***

That had been Tuesday morning. Rick had arranged a tow truck service then and there to get the Charger taken over to A&A's – he'd called Carl to let him know what was happening and ask him to help out. The fact that he'd done so without so much as a snide comment had told Rick exactly how important that car was to his son, too, and had renewed his desire – hell, his _need_ – to see this repair through.

It's Wednesday afternoon now, and Rick hasn't had more than a short conversation with the man who owns A&A's, Dale something-or-another. He'd given the okay for the official inspection, but apparently has to actually meet with them in person before they'll go ahead with any repairs. Rick supposes he gets that, he just wishes that Carl had agreed to accompany him to the shop.

He'd just gotten off a five hour “bonus” shift, and feels no guilt about tossing his tie aside and unbuttoning his shirt a little. It's probably half-untucked from getting in and out of Glenn's car by now, too – the Tucson (he'd finally looked) is much more compact than he's used to.

Dale Horvath turns out to be a calm, direct, older man with thinning hair and a persona that's naturally fatherly. Rick feels immediately at ease with him, and trusts that, at the very least, he won't get ripped off here. He's about five minutes into his first conversation with the man – sitting comfortably in the waiting area sipping coffee that tastes better than what he gets at the precinct – when a younger man emerges from the back.

Appropriately dirty for his line of work, this man counters his grease smudges and busted knuckles with a warm grin and relaxed posture. Rick knows immediately that this man isn't the _Dixon_ that Detective Ford had spoken of.

“Aaron, this is Rick.” Dale introduces them, and Rick doesn't flinch at taking the other man's dirty hand in his own while exchanging pleasantries.

“You the one with the Charger?” Aaron asks, taking a moment to get a cup of water out of the cooler in the waiting room.

“Yessir,” Rick nods with a little grin.

“Good thing, that.” Aaron smiles, too, though the knowing look he shares with Dale says a lot more. “Daryl's been poking around that thing all day. Wants to know if he can get started on it or not.”

“That's what Mr. Grimes and I were just talkin' over,” Dale shares. “I do believe we were about to get into pricing, actually.”

“Call me Rick, please.” The detective insists. “If you're gonna be handling my car and my money, we might as well be on a first name basis.”

Dale and Aaron both chuckle at his comment, but the older man adds, “I'll take your money, but nobody's gonna be handling that car 'cept Daryl, I'll tell you that much right now.”

“Yeah, he gets picky when it comes to his cars.” Aaron agrees, and then notices Rick's expression. “Don't even with that look,” he says, but with a laugh, “It's his 'til he's done working on it.”

“Trust me,” Dale pats his shoulder, “You want it that way.”

Rick accepts these men at their word, and marvels at how easy it is for him to feel like he can trust them.

“Now, I worked up what we in the business call a starting estimate,” Dale holds up a manila folder that doesn't look like it's got more than a few pieces of paper inside of it. Instead of handing it over to Rick, however, Dale passes it up to Aaron – who's still standing, whereas Rick had gone back to sitting after their introduction. Dale had never moved. “Look that over, kid.” He says as an aside to the younger man.

Rick doesn't quite understand this shift in dynamics, but decides to file it away without giving it too much thought. And as Aaron reads over those sheets, Dale explains the basic process to him. When it comes to this kind of car repair, apparently, everything is a matter of best guesses and assumptions until the work starts actually being done. A car that old, things are libel to break that wouldn't normally break, parts might take some doing to find, and special tools will have to be utilized.

“I'll give you my best guess at how much all that's gonna run you,” Dale finishes, “and I try to round up so any surprises are good ones, but there's just never any guarantee when it comes to work like this.”

Aaron clears his throat, done shuffling through the papers. “Chris won't charge us half what you've got on here for the calipers.”

“Chris never includes the price of the hardware.” Dale says, and Aaron's face showcases his annoyance. “And brakes are hardly gonna be the boy's tipping point when it comes to that total bill.”

“Right.” Rick clears his throat. “You never did actually say what exactly was wrong with the car.”

Dale nods. “I know. Wanted to go over the numbers before we really got into it. Basically, though, the car needs a new engine. A rebuilt engine, more than likely, that we're gonna have to rebuild. And you got some other stuff gonin' on, too, not engine stuff. Wanted to get a feel for how attached you were to her before we started down the whats and hows of it.”

“Attached,” Rick croaks, trying to wrap his mind around rebuilding an engine. Did Dale mean literally rebuild, like from nothing? Or did he mean a hodgepodge of other engines pieced together in such a way that the finished product would make his car run? “Definitely attached.”

“Then you're looking at about nine grand.”

Rick gapes.

Aaron sits down in the chair slightly across from them. He leans forward a little and waits patiently for Rick to start breathing again. “That's a new car.”

“Which is basically what you're getting.” This comes from Aaron, who's seems to be taking over for Dale in this critical moment. “The engine you have in that car right now is never gonna run again. I'll let Daryl get into more of the _why_ with you if ya wanna hear it, and you're welcome to take it anywhere for a second opinion on that before we get goin' on it, but I guarantee you anyone who knows anything about cars is gonna tell you the same.”

Rick has his own reasons for trusting this much, but still... _nine thousand dollars_. For a car that's the same age Rick himself is?

He knows in his gut that he's going to say yes, no matter what anyone says or does in the next half hour, he's going to end up saying yes. He also just can't get around the down and out sticker shock of _nine thousand dollars_.

“Besides the engine, man, you've got some torn up brakes, too. Not to mention a front end that's loose enough to almost not be safe.”

 _That_ makes Rick gut twist more painfully than the price had. “How unsafe?”

Carl rides in that car with him. The thing already doesn't have airbags, what other danger has he been putting his kid in?

Aaron must sense his distress, because he says soothingly, “Not, like, the wheels are gonna fall off or anything. 'Least, not yet. Not at all now, if you get her fixed here. But, yeah, I guess, it was getting close.”

“Close my ass.” This voice, rougher and deeper than Dale's or Aaron's, comes unexpectedly from the archway of the same door that Aaron had come out of earlier. Unlike earlier, Rick hadn't heard anyone approach, and the abrupt words catch him off guard.

Immediately he looks to the man – this man he assumes is Daryl Dixon – and absorbs multiple things all at once. Where Dale is wearing a button down shirt not dissimilar to his own (though with jeans instead of dress pants), and Aaron is wearing a coverall shirt with A&A's logo in the corner and a pair of pants that look work-heavy, Daryl is sporting a filthy white tank top and what might have been a light-wash pair of jeans at one point. He's got a trail of dried blood along his forehead that's almost hidden by the dark-sandy hair that's falling all over the place. His arms are literally rippling with muscles, and while Rick's no stranger to the gym weight lifting bench, he knows without doubt that this man would put him to shame. There's also a pair of sharp blue eyes in there somewhere, and a little spot above his lip that may or may not be dirt.

“What?” Rick asks inelegantly, realizing after a pregnant pause that the whole reason he's staring is because this man had said something to him.

“I said,” Daryl repeats, voice thicker with that Georgia drawl than anyone he's heard since he moved to the city. “Don't go lettin' these assholes make ya feel better 'bout that car'a yours. Tie rods 'bout to pop out the damn thing. When's the last time ya got that baby worked on? You know jack about cars?”

“Excuse Mr. Dixon.” Dale says, flashing him the terrified look of a salesperson who can't control his staff. “There's a reason we usually keep him in the back.”

“Fuck you.” Daryl says to the man with very little heat. “He gonna lemme fix 'er up or not?”

“It's a hefty repair, Daryl.” Dale sighs and then looks at him. “Rick?”

“What-um, what, exactly, happened to her?” He asks this to Daryl Dixon, because this is the man who's going to be working on the last remaining piece of his childhood innocence, the link to a life he'd had once and would maybe like to have again someday. He asks Daryl Dixon because he doesn't know if he's capable of looking at anyone else right now, anyway.


	2. Repairs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a couple quick things:  
> -Thank you to everyone who read and left kudos and comments. You guys rock!  
> -The title of this story is from the Sting song “Shape of My Heart”; which, if you’ve never heard it, I highly recommend giving it a listen.  
> -I know a fair bit about newer cars, but am completely out of my depth when it comes to classic ones, so I apologize if I get any details wrong.

***  
***

Once Daryl's got the guy with the Charger all caught up on what had actually _happened_ to his car – internal oil leak, blown head gasket, shot timing chain, tie rods, ball joints, and wheel bearings all with way too much play, rusted out rotors, a pad slap – he asks again if he's going to get the repairs done.

It's been a long time since Daryl's seen a car he wants to remake as much as he wants to remake this guy's '76 Charger, and if the guy in question – Rick, he thinks Dale had said – doesn't want to make the investment, Daryl will be more than happy to take it off his hands.

Fuck, he's almost hoping Dale's ten-something thousand dollar write up scares the guy off. It's been a while since Daryl's considered investing his own time and money into a car, but this Charger wouldn't be a waste. One way or another, he's getting his hands on this car.

He's spent the past twenty minutes talking more than he generally talks to anyone, even the people he likes, and he feels like that right there is enough of an investment that he's owed something.

“I know I'm gonna get it done.” Charger guy says with a sigh, like fixing up this car's going to be a chore for _him_. “As long as you guy's've got some kind of payment plan.”

He's still looking at Daryl when he says this, and the mechanic scrunches his face in an intentionally obvious show of distaste. “I don't handle the money bit of it.” Which isn't entirely true, but the ins and outs of Daryl's job description aren't this guy's business.

So the Charger looks back at Dale, and Daryl's boss starts going into the specifics of this and that, and Daryl gets fidgety because he's not _doing_ anything.

Aaron, who had ducked away from their little huddle in the waiting area to actually take care of a few customers while Dale gave the Charger his full attention, mercifully heads back over.

“We're gonna go finish up that Bronco while you guys sort this out.” Aaron says for both of them, giving Daryl the chance he needs to duck back into the shop.

“Don't start working on that Charger 'til I get the sign-off!” Dale shouts at his retreating back, to which Daryl waves his arm in a general acknowledgment. Though he supposes it wouldn't hurt nobody if he started taking some stuff apart. It's not like that car's going anywhere, even if the guy changes his mind.

“Help me beat these outta here?” Aaron gestures to a stubborn brake job on a rusted as hell '97 S10 that he's been working on all afternoon. Bronco his ass.

Some of the shit they see in here ain't worth the cinder blocks it should be up on.

Daryl grabs a mallet, his part in this process an unspoken pattern holding steady. As he swings, he thinks about the guy with the Charger, and wonders how a clean-cut cop like that winds up with such a classic beauty of a car.

It's not that he's a cop that makes him owning the Charger an odd thing, it's more just something about the man himself that had all but screamed neat and tidy; passing him on the street, Daryl'd be more likely to peg him as a 4Runner type of guy – a truck that's not really a truck, because the guy's probably got kids, and something his wife had read was easy to upkeep. Maybe he'd have a newer Ram that he'd bought with a bonus check or something. But the Charger...the Charger doesn't really fit him.

Except for every then and now while they'd been talking the guy looked at him a certain way, tilted his head and lowered his eyes just right, and Daryl had gotten the distinct impression that there was all sorts of pain built up in there. That's just him, though; Daryl can read pain in people as easy as he can diagnose a car. Thing is, car's almost always easier to fix.

“Whoa, hey!” Aaron shouts at the same time Daryl feels the give and hears the sharp clang of metal on cement. The rusted rotor bounces with the force of Daryl's swing and good old fashioned gravity. He tries to get out of its way, but of course it catches him in the shin.

“Sonnova bitch!” He shouts, loud enough that he's sure Dale had heard him. He dares the old man to tell him to watch his language right now. “ _Shit_.” This he hisses as he reaches down and rubs the forming bruise.

Aaron's face is lit up with amusement.

“Oh, fuck you.” Daryl snaps at his friend.

“Tried to warn ya.” Aaron chuckles. “That's what happens when the car in your head isn't the car in front of you.”

Daryl knows he's talking about the Charger.

Before he can respond, Dale pokes his head out the shop door. “You boys alright?” He half-shouts, since Daryl and Aaron are in the bay farthest from him.

“We got that rotor off the S10.” Aaron half-yells, half-laughs in response. “It fought back. Daryl's gonna need some workman's comp.”

“Fuck all y'all,” Daryl adds, kicking the rotor with his steel-toed boot.

The connecting door bangs shut, signaling Dale's departure, as their boss recognizes that their joking is a clear indication that they're both fine.

As Aaron continues working on the Chevy's ill-fated reemergence into the world, Daryl starts poking around the Charger, figuring that the guy had been dead set enough on getting her up and running again, and that Dale had really probably only told him to hold off for appearances sake, to make it seem like they follow the strictest letter of the law.

“You and Carol coming over for dinner this weekend?” Aaron asks, maybe to distract him from disobeying Dale, maybe just because the thought had entered his head. Either way, it makes Daryl pause.

“Can't.” He grunts, banging a wrench against the Charger's wheel bearing, but not really doing anything with it. “Got Senoia on Saturday. Gonna stop in on Hershel while I'm out that way.”

Aaron hums and nods, leaves silence between them respectfully for about a minute. Then, “Maggie goin' down with you?”

“Hell if I ever know what that girl's gonna do more'an a second 'fore she does it.” Daryl snorts.

Aaron laughs. “Yeah, she really is pretty spontaneous for being the youngest business owner I've ever met.”

“Why don't'cha invite them girls over on their own.” Daryl suggests, nudging the Charger and not looking at Aaron. Maybe he's been meaning to bring this up for a while now.

Aaron stops what he's doing, too. “Think they're ready for that?”

“Been seven months.” Daryl grips the Charger's tie rod in his fist and shakes it roughly. “Michonne thinks it's a good idea. And fuck, it's just you guys.”

“But-”

“Nah, man,” Daryl interrupts him, his grip on the tie rod is painful, and Daryl wonders if the part is rusted enough to crumble in his hand. “She's gotta stop hidin'. 'Sides, you're jus' askin', right? She'an say no.”

“She won't if she thinks you wouldn't want her to.” Aaron points out, but Daryl shakes his head.

“She's stronger than you'd think, Aaron.” Daryl tells him, and it's something he believes. Something he _knows_. “Make the call. I'm goin' by Michonne's after work.”

Aaron nods his understanding, and Daryl's sure that he can count on the man.

***  
***

The Monday after Rick drops the Charger off at A&A's the detective gets home from a nine hour shift to find his apartment suspiciously void of any indication that Carl had ever come home from school.

“Carl,” Rick calls out, knowing that it doesn't take much to hear everything in this apartment. It's spacious, for what it is; but what it is, is a two-bedroom fourth floor walk-up with a tiny balcony and one big common area. Not, simply put, an easy space for a kid to get lost in.

“Carl?” Rick raps on his son's bedroom door, thinking that while he doesn't hear music, the boy might be wearing headphones. An ill-advised, yet ultimately fruitless, peek inside the room finds it empty.

Trying to quell his panic, and not at all thinking about the drug trafficker they'd questioned today who had threatened Rick's continued well-being if he and the department didn't back off, the detective exits his own apartment and walks approximately fifteen feet to his right.

“Hey, sorry,” are Glenn's first words when he opens the door. “I told Carl to leave you a note. Carl!” He shouts over his shoulder, not giving the elder Grimes a chance to respond, “You didn't leave your dad a note?”

Muffled by the continued sounds of explosions that Rick recognizes well from one of the video games he'd never really liked his son playing, comes Carl's lackluster, “Sorry.”

“Sorry, again,” Glenn turns back to him, “I should have made sure.”

Rick shakes his head. “It's nothing, really. This is the first place I checked.”

“Good,” the younger man nods once, and then suddenly jerks. “Hey, I suck. You wanna come in?” He moves back to hold the door open.

Rick enters the apartment not so much because he feels particularly like socializing, but because this is the place his son's been spending a decent chunk of his free time as of late, and he feels it’s his paternal obligation to at least look around.

The first thing he notices is that Glenn's apartment has the exact same layout as his own, only marginally smaller, and presumably with only one bedroom. The second thing he notices is that once he passes through the front hallway and kitchen, all he can see are computer screens.

“Whoa,” he can't help but react.

“Yeah, yeah,” Glenn's scratching the back of his neck self-consciously. “Despite how it looks, I don't actually sit around all day playing GTA. They're mostly for my work.”

Rick's not really a tech guy; had never gotten into game systems or Clouds, so objectively the six computer screens, small and large, positioned in the corner of Glenn's living might not actually be a lot. Carl seems to be enjoying the largest one (which just might be a TV) well enough, at any rate.

“Son,” he says.

The boy spares him the briefest glance before going back to...something that makes a lot of noise.

“It's not overly violent,” Glenn starts, in a soothing voice that seems to be in response to something that Rick must have conveyed without realizing. “It's more about strategy and predicting outcomes, stuff like that. I don't even own GTA. Well, I do, but for purely clinical reasons. There have been studies recently that suggest moderate game play actually has several long-term benefits, including better hand-eye coordination and problem solving-”

“Breathe, man,” Rick laughs, and shepherds them out of the living room (his couches look comfortable, he'll have to ask where he got them. Can single guys do that?). Once they're back in the kitchen, which is half the size of Rick's, the detective grins. “I don't care that he's over here playin'...whatever that is.”

“Skyrim.” Glenn responds at once.

“I saw a dragon.” Rick responds dryly, and keeps talking quickly when the younger man opens his mouth and looks for all the world like he wants to launch into a detailed explanation of something. “Look, I never liked those games much, but I don't think they're hurtin' him. Long as he keeps his grades alright and remembers to check in, I'm fine with it. I'm glad he's talking to someone other than me, frankly. Not that he ever really talks to me, as it is.”

Glenn's expression gets sympathetic. “We don't talk much about anything but the game, really.” He shares. “He's mentioned...some stuff, but...”

Rick shakes his head, seeing the younger man's turmoil. “Don't feel like ya gotta report back to me, Glenn. You ain't my spy. You don't mind him over here eatin' your food and playin' these games, then...” He trails off, considering something. “You don't mind, do you? Because, man, you're not obligated to-”

“I know,” Glenn cuts him off quickly. “Carl's a cool kid. Kinda reminds me of my nephew when he was that age.”

Rick studies him carefully, and eventually decides that the other man is telling the truth. “Alright.” He nods. “Don't ever be afraid to send him home, ya hear?”

Glenn nods, and then shoots a look at the wall separating them from Carl. “You think he should have more friends his own age, though?”

Rick glances at the wall, too, and sighs deeply. “We're working on it.”

***  
***

Daryl ducks to the left and then immediately shifts all his weight to the right. He curls inwards and then lifts his left arm in defense of the fist that's coming towards him. After a successful block, he steps back and plants his weight firmly. He's not expecting his opponent to strike on his right so soon after the dodge, though, and the immediate counterbalance leaves him just barely getting away from the blow and then stumbling backwards.

“You're not paying attention.”

He's breathing hard and decides not to respond. He wipes the sweat from his forehead and falls into a crouching position.

“Dare,” Michonne trails off, moving just far enough away from him to toss him a towel. “Wanna talk about it?” She grimaces around the question.

“No.” He bites.

“Good.” She snaps back. They're not really the talking-it-out types, at least not with each other. Michonne spends half her life listening to people and offering advice, though it's usually clipped and often advocates violence.

Daryl stands up and stretches his muscles out, feeling all kinds of twinges and aches. Michonne sees him grimace and scowls deeply. “Needed to take a day off.”

“Gonna be gone all weekend,” he shrugs.

Michonne looks perplexed for only a moment before the lines on her face smooth into understanding. “We haven't used the katanas in a while.”

Daryl snorts. “Never did get that. When in the fuck you ever gonna need to know how'ta sword fight?”

Michonne glances at him and smirks. “You never know, Dixon.”

Then she tosses him the blade, and the rest of the world fades away.

***  
***

Rick's been feeling unnaturally melancholy as of late. Maybe it's because he misses his car, maybe it's because of Carl's continued ambivalence towards him and life in general, and maybe it's because he's been in this city over two months now and feels like he hasn't made any progress at all.

He spends the majority of his days merely _existing_. He does what's required of him at work, socializes to the barest degree with his coworkers, and then goes home. Home, where he tries and fails to engage Carl in conversation about anything other than Glenn and Skyrim – and even those discussions are usually short and angry. He knows that there's something he's supposed to be doing here, something that's missing from his life, something that might actually make it a _life_ ; but he doesn't know what it is. He doesn't what he's supposed to _do_.

And no one's around anymore to tell him.

So maybe that's why, on the Tuesday exactly one week after Rick leaves the Charger at A&A's, being awoken by Carl's frantic voice is almost a relief. It makes him feel something, at any rate, and that's a nice change of pace, even if the _something_ that accompanies his son shaking him awake and calling his name over and over is heart-stopping, blood-pulsing _terror_.

“Carl, what? What is it?” He sits up in bed and grabs his son's shoulders, forcing the boy to meet his eyes while at the same time scanning him for injuries. No blood, he notes.

“I can't find my BB gun.” He still sounds like this fact might be the start of the next great apocalypse, but Rick's heart stops stuttering so quick that he thinks maybe his body'll go into shock over the extreme shift.

“Carl,” he sighs deeply and squeezes his son's shoulders. “Carl, you scared the crap out of me.” He doesn't say it with any heat, because he'd always rather his son scare him than not come to him at all.

“ _Dad_ ,” the boy exclaims, sounding absolutely infuriated in that way only kids seem to manage. “Shane gave me that gun. And I can't find it.”

Even hearing Shane's name is a muted pain in this moment, still overcome with relief and trying to even out his breathing. “We'll find it.” He assures his son, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, knowing that he really will have to give this matter his full and undivided attention. “When's the last time you remember having it?”

“I don't know.” Carl wails.

“Yes you do,” Rick keeps his voice steady, one hand still on Carl's shoulder while the other runs over his face, trying to pinpoint his own most recent memory of the item in question. “Weren't we gonna take it down the park a few weeks ago?”

Carl seems to focus on that, and calms down some. “Yeah.” He agrees eventually. “Yeah, I wanted to shoot at cans like we used to, but you said it'd be too loud.”

Because they aren't in the country anymore, but Rick pushes aside the memory of the argument that had followed, and tries to just recall what had happened to the gun.

“I put it in the Charger,” Carl exclaims, looking absolutely certain. “It's in the car.”

“Well, there you go,” Rick sighs, relieved. “We can get it back-”

“Today.” His son interrupts him. “I want it back today. Let's go now.”

The detective sighs heavily, and seriously considers just giving in to his son. What would be the harm, really, in both of them taking the morning off and driving the thirty minutes (probably closer to an hour in rush hour traffic) down to A&A's and picking up the gun?

The harm, Rick knows, would be in teaching his son that impulse control is irrelevant and that hanging onto the past is more important than trying to build a new future. _Because spending nine grand to get that car fixed in the first place isn't teaching him the exact same thing_ , a voice that sounds a lot like Lori's creeps in on him. He politely tells it to shut the fuck up.

“You gotta go to school,” he says eventually, wincing when Carl's face contorts into fierce anger barely concealing grief. “We can get it after I get outta work.”

“That won't be until late tonight. The shop'll be closed.” Carl whines.

Rick hadn't actually thought of that. “Then we'll go tomorrow.” He promises. “We'll get up early.”

“But-”

“Enough, Carl,” Rick snaps. “Your BB gun's safe there, alright? And you don't need it right now. School has to come first.”

“Shane would have taken me to get it.” Carl responds, crossing his arms and scowling in such an ugly, twisted way that he really does, for just a moment, look like the departed man in question.

“Well Shane wasn't your father.” Rick says these words without thinking, because Carl's attitude is making him overly emotional, and he's still not fully awake, and five minutes ago he'd thought his son was dying.

“I wish he had been!” Carl shouts, and doesn't give Rick a chance to respond before stomping out of the older man's bedroom and slamming the door behind him.

It's a good thing, too, because the last thing his son needs to see are the tears in his eyes.

***

Lunchtime that day finds Rick still affected by Carl's words. Though he hadn't let the pre-teen in on his angst (he's a firm believer in not giving kids guilt), they hadn't spoken at all on the ride to the school. Rick's “Love you” as Carl had been getting out of the car had been met with a grunt.

Morgan tells him that kids say things all the time that they don't mean, that it's just their way of learning what they can do with their words, of testing their boundaries. When he confesses to not reprimanding Carl for his declaration, Morgan clucks his tongue. “Probably don't wanna make a habit of that. Kids are damn near psychopaths as it is.”

That makes Rick laugh, at any rate, and he's just starting to think about maybe having a conversation with his son when he gets home that night when his cell phone rings; a number he doesn't recognize flashing across the screen, but it's got a local area code so he decides to answer.

“Detective Grimes.”

“Knew you was a cop,” the deep southern drawl on the other end of the phone line is immediately recognizable to Rick as Daryl Dixon's. He decides not to think about how hearing that voice makes his stomach clench in a painfully pleasant kind of way.

“Mr. Dixon,” he clears his throat, finding it suddenly dry.

“Call me that again and yer pretty little car gets a crowbar ta the hood,” he growls, and call him crazy, but Rick really doesn't think he's kidding.

“You know, threatening an officer is a crime,” he pauses, makes sure he's got his voice pitched right, not too serious, “Daryl.”

The man on the other end of the phone line snorts, and Rick can only hope it's in genuine amusement and not mocking anger.

“Yeah, well,” the other man huffs a little, “So's lettin' your kid wander 'round up here when I'm pretty damn sure he's supposed to be in school.”

Rick's whole body goes still, fear and anger grip him from either side. “Carl? Carl's at the shop right now?”

Daryl grunts. “Yeah, an' your boy's got a mouth on him, I'll tell ya what.”

Rick can't think about what those words actually mean, coming from a man like Daryl, or that he sounds amused saying them. “But he's alright?”

“He's fussin' up a storm 'bout gettin' caught,” Daryl tells him, “but, yeah, he's alright.”

“Shit,” Rick hisses, rubbing hand roughly over his face and slamming his hand down on his desk, drawing the attention of several fellow detectives who probably now think him about as mature as his son. He takes a deep breath. “Dammit, fuck,” he says quieter, and is uplifted ever so slightly when Daryl laughs at his exclamations. “I'll be there in an hour to pick him up.”

“Don't gotta rush it.” Daryl assures him, “know you got a 9 to 5 gig over there. Give me the okay, and we'll put your boy to work.”

Rick breathes a laugh, but realizes when he doesn't get one back in response that Daryl might not be kidding. “Wait, seriously?”

“I'm sure we can find somethin' for the kid to do that won't violate child labor laws,” this time Daryl does chuckle a little. “Look, man, I'm here 'til six, just come pick up the brat 'fore then and we'll be fine.”

Rick doesn't know if he should protest Daryl Dixon, a relative stranger, insulting his kid or not. On the one hand, principals and all of that, on the other, if push came to shove, Rick knows Daryl already has the evidence he needs to prove the truth of his claim.

In the end, he decides to just be grateful. “Thanks, Daryl.”

“You're welcome,” the other man clears his throat, and sounds a little raw when he finishes with, “Detective Grimes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the second meeting is fast approaching. What might transpire between our boys when Rick goes to fetch Carl? I'll tell you this much: it definitely won't be cute. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Misunderstandings

***

Rick's not an idiot, or an overly trusting person in general, so of course he'd done a check on A&A's before he'd brought the Charger there. The place had come up spotless, with no lawsuits or petty claims against it. And the employees – all four of them – have similarly clean backgrounds: no criminal history, minor or otherwise, and only a handful of parking tickets between them. That alone might not be enough for Rick to trust that his son is safe there, but Detective Ford's testimony certainly is.

“Not a troubled kid Dale Horvath _can't_ straighten out,” Ford chuckles, “He's kinda got a knack for it.”

“And Daryl and Aaron?”

“You met 'em,” Ford exclaims with a bit of derision that might or might not be for show, “Tellin' me you didn't get a gut feelin' for neither of 'em?”

The first time he'd seen Daryl, standing in the doorway of the shop, flashes through Rick's mind. _Attractive_ is the first word he thinks, but he brushes that away as an objective physical description.

_Calmer than he looks_ , is what comes to him next. And then, _contained like lightening_.

“I think he's a good guy,” Rick eventually nods at Ford. “Someone I could trust.”

The older detective gives him a long, intensely searching look that Rick's not sure what to make of until a few minutes after he nods his own agreement and wanders off.

Detective Ford had asked him his opinion of _them_ \- Aaron and Daryl - but Rick had only answered in reference to one of them.

He can only hope that's not as telling as it feels.

***  
***

Carl's about Sophia's age – maybe a year or two older – and the similarity between them starts and stops right there. Sophia is a soft-spoken child, always afraid of being in the way and getting punished for it (Daryl's trying like hell to get those reactions out of her, but he knows better than most that it can take a lifetime), she's also genuinely kind, always thinking of others first. She's an easy kid to love.

Carl, on the other hand, tests Daryl's patience from the second he shows up at Dale's and sneaks into the shop. It's actually a pretty lucky thing, that Daryl had stopped torching long enough to take a piss at the same time the kid had wandered in like he owns the place – god only knows what the flying sparks and light would have done to the kid's vision, had he gotten too close.

And maybe it's that fear that had had him screaming at the kid when he'd first seen him.

The boy had tried to run, of course, but Daryl's bigger and faster, and he'd caught him without trying and without hurting. Once they'd gotten him settled safe in the office, it had taken ten straight minutes of Aaron trying to play nice and getting only 'fuck you's and 'I ain't saying shit's for Daryl to decide to step in.

Call him a mean bastard, but he knows what the right kind of stare and a well-timed slamming door can do to a kid. He doesn't want to be his daddy – makes sure, every damn day with Sophie, that he's nothing like that rotten old sonnova bitch, in fact – but Carl's the kind of kid who seems like he's gone too long without any consequences.

When he finally tells them who he is – the Charger's kid – he spits something about his dad being a cop, a _detective_ , he corrects himself with a flair, and how the older man is going to arrest them both for kidnapping if they don't let him go right now.

Aaron and Daryl exchange a look at that threat, not even trying to hide their smirks. Kid's got moxy, they gotta give him that.

The boy's generally appalling disposition makes more sense to Daryl after he says something like, “You got an attitude only a mother could love,” to him, and the kid's face goes stone cold.

“My mom's dead.”

It's a new thing, too, Daryl guesses, if his reaction is anything to go by. Explains the kid's dad moving them out closer to the city, anyway, and also his apparent lack of regard concerning his son's bullshit attitude. It's not an easy thing, he knows, to suddenly have to be a single parent. His own daddy hadn't handled it all that great himself, Daryl thinks ironically; and even Carol – who's actually worthy of being called a parent – hadn't taken to it without a few missteps.

It explains the pain he'd seen in Rick's eyes the day they'd first met, too. A week ago feels like longer now – always does when he spends weekends down south – but Daryl remembers the man's eyes, the hidden glints he'd caught of grief in them. Daryl knows his fair share about loss, but he's never had a partner ripped away from him like that.

It makes him feel for the man.

“Got too many fuckin' kids 'round here,” Daryl says to Aaron, right before he calls the senior Grimes. “There's goddamn power tools back there, an' fire and shit. Why the fuck we got kids runnin' in'an outta here like it's a damn playground?”

“One of those kids is yours,” Aaron points out, waving off Daryl's immediate protests. “Which reminds me. Carol called earlier, asked if Sophia could come by after school since she's goin' up to the college with Michonne.”

“'Course,” Daryl sighs. For not having fathered any, and definitely never having wanted any, there really are just too many fucking kids in his world anymore.

***  
***

Rick gets the Captain to let him leave just early enough to get to A&A's before Daryl's gone for the day. In fact, without as much traffic as he's used to, he actually makes it there at right about half past five. He notices for the first time walking in that there's a spot over the door that looks like there might have been a bell attached there at one point and someone had maybe ripped it off – Rick wonders if that someone had been Daryl. Instead of that now, there's a smaller, manual customer service bell on the counter and a sign encouraging people to ring it if they need help.

Rick's about to do just that when he notices that there actually is someone in the little waiting area where he'd sat himself a week prior, talking to Dale, Aaron, and Daryl about the fate of his beloved car. Only now, the person sitting in one of those chairs, her lap covered in books, is a young girl.

“Hi,” Rick says. He realizes as soon as he sees her that she'd been staring at him this whole time. He tries not to be weirded out by that, or by her wide, searching eyes. Some kids are just quiet, he knows – he sees them on the job – just because he's been blessed with one of the rowdy ones, doesn't mean the alternatives aren't normal.

“Hi.” She responds, her voice is quiet, but firm, and she looks almost proud of herself for using it.

“My name's Rick,” he approaches the girl slowly, noting the way she retracts slightly and clenching his teeth. She could just be shy, he knows, but there's also a good chance those reactions are indications of exactly what they look like.

“I'm Sophia.” She tells him, voice a little less sure than before.

“Sophia.” He nods, as if thinking it over. “That's a pretty name. In fact, we were gonna name Carl that, if he'd turned out to be a girl.”

This makes Sophia giggle, and Rick feels proud of that.

Adopting a more casual stance, unbuttoning his jacket and loosening his tie a bit, he takes a step closer to the girl.

“Sophia, I'm actually looking for...” he trails off, because all at once her eyes have gone impossibly wide and her face deathly pale. “Sophia?”

“You-you...” she's stuttering, and not meeting his eyes.

“Sophia, are you-”

“ _Daryl_!” The word is a banshee scream out of her mouth; more noise than he'd ever thought someone her size could make, and filled with more fear than he's ever felt comfortable putting in anybody, let alone an innocent little girl.

The force of her shout has him reeling back, and for the longest second of...well, at least this month of his life, he's completely at a loss as to what he should do.

He's grateful, almost, when the tornado force of Daryl Dixon crashes through the shop door. The mechanic's eyes go immediately to the young girl, and then to Rick. The detective, who's shot men and stared them down and brought the worst sort to justice, nearly quivers under the look he sees there.

_Contained like lightening_.

Later he'll think that it's not entirely human – that what rose to the surface in Daryl at Sophia's shout was the primal need an animal has to protect it's young, and god help the doomed man who winds up the target of that.

In the moment, it leaves him more afraid than he's comfortable admitting.

Daryl stalks up to him, shoulders back and head raised – hunting. He places himself in between Rick and Sophia. “Why's she yellin' like that, _Detective_?” The younger man spits the word like it's the filthiest of insults when, not hours earlier, he'd been damn near teasing him with it.

“I-I don't know,” he takes a deep breath and forces himself to calm down. He's done nothing wrong, and he's the one with a badge. “Look, Daryl, I was just talkin' to her.”

The mechanic's expression states pretty clearly that he doesn't believe that.

“Ask her,” Rick implores, and thinks desperately that there should be other people here. More than just him and Daryl and this girl in a room together. There should be his son, for starters, and Aaron and Dale, and maybe even some customers, seeing as this is a place of business and all. But no, by some happenstance of fate or doing, they're alone.

“Sophia,” Rick says when Daryl doesn't.

“Don' you fuckin’ talk to her.” The other man growls, taking a step closer.

“Just hear me out. Hear _her_ out.” He tries again. There are a million different ways this could end, and only a few of them involve everyone going home happy. “What made you so scared, Sophia?”

The little girl had, in the time since Daryl had burst out here, curled herself up into the chair. Her books fallen to the floor, knees drawn up tight to her chest. Still, she manages to meet Rick's gaze this time, and he tries his absolute damnedest to convey all the safety and calm that people are always telling him he emits so naturally.

After a minute that feels more like a lifetime, the little girl says, “Daryl,” so softly that Rick barely makes it out. And, despite his own obvious conflict over the matter, the younger man turns halfway around – so that his back isn't to Rick but he can still see the girl – and says, “yeah, Soph?” in a voice that's as gentle as his stance is formidable.

“C'mere,” she whispers, and gestures for him to move closer like she wants to tell him a secret.

Rick holds up his hands in a sign of obvious surrender and takes a step back when Daryl looks at him. _I'm not here to hurt nobody_ , is what he says with his actions; _I don't know what just happened, but I wanna make it right_.

Slowly, Daryl walks forward, his eyes are still on Rick, but he crouches down in front of Sophia. For breathless moments the girl whispers into his ear. Then, as quick as it had come, Daryl's out-for-blood-and-its-gonna-be-yours demeanor vanishes. His whole posture relaxes, even crouched like he is, and as his shoulders slouch his head follows it, hanging low in a universal display of _aw, fuck_.

“Damn, girly,” the younger man finally says, lifting his head and shaking it fondly, patting Sophia on the knee. “You 'bout gave Officer Friendly over there a heart attack, I reckon.”

“Detective Friendly,” he corrects idiotically, and laughs self-consciously, the fading adrenalin making him a little loopy, when Daryl gives him a look.

“Hey,” Daryl addresses the girl, getting to his feet and lifting her off the chair in one fell swoop, despite the fact that Sophia can't be much younger than Carl is. Then he looks at Rick, “C'mere, Detective Smart Ass.”

Rick snorts and does what he's told. Still unsure of exactly what had just happened, and fully aware of the fact that he's nearing arm's length of a man he'd honestly thought capable of killing him thirty seconds ago, Rick can't bring his mind to work out all the reasons why this moment is stupid and strange. Without thought, he does what Daryl Dixon asks of him, and soon they're right next to each other, damn near sharing air.

With Sophia balanced against him with one arm, Daryl uses his other to reach out and finger the hem of Rick's suit jacket.

“Whoa now,” he exclaims, going to take an instinctual step back as his heart speeds up again. He has no idea what's happening right now. He usually knows what's happening.

“Easy, dumbass,” Daryl says this almost affectionately, and holds tight to the fabric in his grip.

Meeting his gaze shouldn't be as comforting as it is, shouldn't make him trust this man he barely knows – this man who had been ready to attack him moments ago at the terrified scream of a young girl who’s probably his and...and... “What're you doin'?”

Daryl smiles at him with a warmth and affection that had probably been meant for Sophia but had gotten tossed at him by accident. An accident, he'll remember later, that had changed everything.

“Jus' showin' the girl there ain't nuthin' to be afraid of.”

With that, Daryl takes his jacket and holds it up, high and out of the way, revealing his hip and the gun still holstered there since he'd come straight from work.

All at once, everything that had just happened becomes crystal clear.

“Don't like guns much?” He asks this of Sophia, who's staring at the metal on his hip half like it might come to life and attack of its own free will, and half like a scientist intently studying something that they don't quite understand yet.

“Some are alright,” she tells him distractedly. “Like the ones Daryl has. But others are bad.”

Rick shoots the mechanic a questioning look.

“Got permits on all of 'em, Ace,” Daryl scowls a little, but doesn't look much like he means it. He would, actually, look dead serious, had Rick not seen the face this man truly wears when he's dangerous.

If they were rivals, Rick might think Daryl had played a hand too soon. But he has no intention of making this man his enemy.

“Wouldn't doubt it.”

They're still standing like that, close enough to touch with Rick's jacket held up in Daryl's hand, when Carl and Aaron walk in from the shop door.

“Hey, buddy,” Aaron reacts first, voice too sweet to be real and too mocking, Rick wants to think, to be safe. “What'd we miss up here?”


	4. Scars

***

Daryl lets Rick Grimes and his son use Dale's office for what he's sure hoping is going to be a stern lecture about how kids shouldn't go wandering into work places like this without the proper supervision – and maybe a word or two on not skipping school to fetch BB guns while he's at it.

Daryl has no way of knowing who _Shane_ is, save the provider of that coveted BB gun, but the way Carl had said his name, desperate-like, makes Daryl think he's as dead as the boy's mamma. He wonders briefly if maybe this Shane fellow had been a...a lover, or whatever law folks like Grimes call it, of the detective's after his wife's death. He doesn't think too long on why he might be wandering something like that.

Whoever the man had been, at any rate, the Charger's kid had been fond of him, deeply so. It goes a step farther in explaining the boy's attitude, and it's another anomaly to add to the pile that's stacking up around Rick Grimes' feet.

“I know nine grand ain't nothin' to sneeze at,” Aaron wanders over to where Daryl's sitting behind the desk up front, and plops himself down on the corner of it, “but Dale sold twice that to that Caddy last week, and you've made ten times it from Abraham Ford this year alone.”

Daryl raises his eyebrows; _what's your fuckin' point?_

Sophia, who'd been fine enough to go back to her books and little kid world after she'd gotten a good look at the detective's gun and listened to Daryl tell her all about how guys like Rick Grimes, law upholding folks only use weapons like that when they're protecting people (a half-lie, maybe, but one she's miraculously still innocent enough to believe), chooses this moment to wander over from the waiting area and climb up into Daryl's lap. Used enough to this quiet affection from the child, Daryl settles her on his knee without much conscious thought, and as she adjusts herself so she can go back to reading whatever it is that's caught her fancy this week Daryl barely pauses in the conversation he's having with Aaron.

The younger man's looking at him with something like fondness, and it makes Daryl scowl. If there's one thing that having Sophia in his life has taught him it's that loving a child doesn't make you weaker: it makes you invincible.

“And yet,” his friend goes on with what he'd been saying before their pint-sized interruption, “I don't think either of them would get the special treatment you seem to be giving Grimes.”

The older man frowns deeply. “Guy with that Caddy never said but two words t'us, and Ford is just an asshole, plain and simple.”

Aaron chuckles. “And Rick Grimes ain't? He's a cop just the same, isn't he?”

Listening to Aaron talk sometimes is a chore. Not just because he likes shooting off at the mouth about things he doesn't understand; but also because of the way he uses words. The type to blend in naturally with whatever's around him, Aaron's dialect is too often a clash of lawyer formal and hillbilly raw. To someone who doesn't know him, it makes him seem untrustworthy if he doesn't couch it.

“Bein' a cop ain't got nuthin' to do with it.”

“Do with what?” The Charger and his boy appear from around the corner, and Daryl shoots a quick, sharp look their way. Isn't too often that someone can come up behind him without his noticing, and he doesn't have a clue how the detective or his kid had gotten that office door open without Daryl hearing it.

“Do with why Abraham Ford's a-”

“Good man.” Aaron interrupts with what he likes to think of as his charming grin.

“Ass,” Daryl corrects, glaring at his friend, and then, less heatedly, at the Charger. “I know he's the one sent ya 'round here. Gonna forgive it, though, 'cause I like yer car.”

“Dad,” his boy whines before he gets the chance to say a word. “Why do I gotta apologize if they talk like that, too?”

“Because Daryl's a grownup and you're not.” The impressively succinct answer comes from the girl in Daryl's lap, who doesn't look up from her book to make this declaration.

Carl goes red around the ears, apparently embarrassed about being schooled by someone younger than him. Daryl grins a little at the girl, and then smirks at the detective's son.

“I'm sorry I swore at you guys,” Carl says quietly, kicking the ground between reluctant glances at Aaron and Daryl both. “I'm sorry I was rude, and that I was in your way all day.”

Daryl and Aaron exchange a quick glance, and his softening expression tells Daryl all he needs to know about what kind of father Aaron's going to make someday.

“You're forgiven, kiddo,” the younger man smiles, and that makes Carl smile a little too. He glances at Daryl.

The mechanic almost gives, there's barely a reason not to, after all. This is just Rick Grimes being polite, trying to teach his son about manners and civility; all the things Daryl's daddy had left his sons to figure out about on their own, never mind the devastating consequences of doing so after you're fully grown. This moment is just a life lesson, a damn after school special.

Well, Daryl decides, he's gonna make it a more important one.

“Your cussin' ain't the last'a my issues with what you did today, kid,” Daryl tightens his expression some, but makes sure to keep it a length away from totally pissed. “Next time ya decide to walk in'ta that shop without lettin' someone know 'bout it, yer damn head better be on fire.”

Carl's face drains of color, and he looks instinctively to his father. The older man's expression is carefully neutral.

“Don't go lookin' at him like he's gonna get ya outta this,” Daryl scolds. “Old enough to make the mistake is old 'nough to make it right.” He leans forward some, adjusting around Sophia, who still seems totally ambivalent to what's going on in front of her. “We got stuff out there ten times as dangerous as that gun yer daddy's got. Wanderin' 'round out there without a clue's a good way ta get hurt, or worse.”

After debating it for only a moment, Daryl moves Sophia over a little bit more, so he can get a fistful of his shirt, almost just like he'd done to Rick earlier; only now he's exposing his own bare skin instead of the detective's light green shirt and gun holster. There's a scar on his side, just an inch or two up and over from his hip; it's not nearly the worst of the scars he's got, but it's one that still looks a little raw and always will.

Predictably, Carl's face contorts into shocked horror – tinged with the barest traces of awe, because he is an eleven-year-old boy, after all – and Daryl smirks. A quick glance at the boy's father finds Rick's gaze as transfixed to the now exposed piece of damaged flesh as his son's.

“That's wha' happens 'round here,” Daryl sniffs and lowers his shirt. “When ya don't got damn clue what you're doin'.”

“Which is to say nothing of the time Daryl broke my foot,” Aaron puts in, seemingly without thinking it through, because he's got that pinched look of regret when Daryl glances his way.

“Well, you weren't watchin' what you was doin', neither” he scowls deeply, a little bit for the boy's sake, and a little bit because that memory still pisses him off. Back at Carl, he says, “You get it, kid? Why I was pissed 'bout you coming in here? Why you can't do it again?”

Still a little too pale for normal, Carl's nodding rapidly. “Yes, I understand, Mr. Dixon.”

With an eye roll perfectly in time with Sophia's giggle – little shit had been listening this whole time – Daryl tells the kid, “Don't call me Mr. Dixon. Or sir. Just use my name an' do what I say. Or, well, do what yer daddy says, mostly. And stay outta my shop.”

Carl nods rapidly, and the moment fizzles out of intensity.

“After all'a this,” Rick finally says, “tell me you managed to find that BB gun?”

Carl smiles a little, rebounding from the shock of Daryl's lecture. “It was in the trunk of the Charger,” he supplies. “Aaron let me go out back and shoot pop cans.”

“Aaron's gonna make some kid a real lenient daddy someday,” Daryl snorts, and Rick laughs. The tug in his belly at hearing that is just relief over the man not getting pissed at him for yelling at his kid (a fine line to walk with most parents), not anything else.

“Hey, we also spent a couple hours washing Dale’s truck and sweepin’ up the shop.” Aaron adds, looking sheepish. 

“So that's where y'all were earlier when...” Rick trails off, staring for a moment at Daryl. The mechanic hasn't mentioned to anyone about his little burst of aggression earlier. Seems like between that, and his all but threatening the man's son, it's a damn wonder that Grimes hasn't slapped a pair of cuffs on him yet.

He can't decide if the man's a pushover, or just that soft and steady kind of calm. Either way, he isn't ever going to fit with Daryl, that's for damn sure.

Rick clears his throat. “Nice you can do that here,” he says, “we live too close to the city for recreational shooting.”

“Should go out to Daryl's sometime,” Aaron says innocently. “He's all but got a shootin' range in his backyard.”

“That'd be so cool,” Carl declares before any of the grownups get a chance to respond. “Dad, can we? I miss shooting. And you said you'd teach me how to use a real gun someday.”

The detective's eyes fill with a sort of pain that Daryl recognizes well – promises you know you won't be able to keep – and wonders if Rick had been the one to say those words at all.

“Someday when you're older.” Rick responds without missing more than half a beat. “And I don't think Daryl'd like us trespassing on his property any more than he liked you in his shop.”

“I think it'd be nice if Carl came over.” Sophia says, proving once again that kids catch on way quicker than adults. These words, however, surprise Daryl enough that he looks down at the girl. Having finally given up the pretense of reading, she's looking between Daryl, Carl, and Rick with wide, hopeful eyes.

Carl looks pleased in his own way, and Rick doesn't seem to understand the significance of this moment. No reason for him to, Daryl supposes. He couldn't know that this is exactly the fourth time Sophia's ever asked anything of him besides physical protection. And _can my friend come over and play?_ sounds worlds nicer coming out of her mouth than _please don't let him hurt me anymore_.

“Well that effectively settles that.” Aaron declares. “Carl, Sophie, I think you can both trust that you'll soon be getting exactly what you want, seeing as Daryl Dixon's got the world's biggest soft spot for you, little missy,” he points at Sophia, and the girl giggles. “Now, why don't you guys give these two a chance to sort out the details.”

“C'mon,” Sophia jumps off his lap then, knee digging just a little too hard into his leg, and reaches her hand out for Carl's. “I'll show you the PSP Daryl stole from Maggie.”

“Borrowed.” Daryl corrects quickly.

Sophia flashes him a grin identical to the one her ma's been wearing more and more as of late, and the mechanic softens. After the kids run off, Aaron clucks his tongue at them. “Just saw an old Town Car pull up,” he says with a shrug. “Better go and take care'a them.”

And just like that Daryl finds himself once again all alone with the wayward detective.

***  
***

When they get home that night, Rick's torn between wanting to lecture Carl some more about what he'd done today, and wanting to thank his boy profusely for opening the door to Daryl Dixon's life.

It's maybe not going to go the direction he's been half not-thinking that it might go – considering the women he'd met at A&A's right before he and Carl had left the shop that day – but he still feels like something, even if it's not the unnamable something from before, might be growing between him and the rough mechanic. Friendship, he thinks. Or at least the potential for it.

And maybe Carl's not the only one who's been needing to find a few more of those in this new life of theirs.

“I'm gonna make some spaghetti for dinner,” he declares when they get back to the apartment, tossing the clunky Enterprise keychain on the table by their front door, grateful to be rid of it. “And you're gonna help me.”

Carl rolls his eyes, but he does as Rick asks without any verbal protest.

Baby steps, his mother would have said, can't ask for more than baby steps.

As they're preparing the meal together – Rick boiling noodles while Carl tosses salad makings into a bowl – the boy starts peppering him with questions. The most important of which seems to be, “Are we really gonna go over to Daryl's house sometime?”

The older man sighs deeply, and thinks back to his conversation with the enigmatic master mechanic.

_“Aaron ain't wrong 'bout my house bein' the right place for shootin' guns,” the younger man's rubbing absently at the spot on his leg where Sophia's bony knee had no doubt formed a bruise in her hasty retreat. Rick thinks it's an important thing that he hadn't reprimanded the girl, or even reacted to the too-quick movements._

_He doesn't believe in giving kids guilt._

_“Assumin',” the man goes on, “that's somethin' you want your boy doin'.”_

_He looks unsure, like maybe it's just now occurring to him that firearms aren't the type of things all parents let their kids run a muck with._

_Rick shrugs. “Never told him I'd teach him how to shoot.” He runs a hand over his face, maybe a little more tired after everything that had happened today than he'd let himself feel before just now. “Wondering...I'm wondering if he really doesn't remember; if me an' Shane just got mixed together for him 'cause he was so young.”_

_He hasn't said Shane's name out loud to anyone save his son since they'd come to Atlanta. The shock of it's got him feeling dizzy._

_“Siddown,” the other man demands roughly, gesturing to the chair that's set diagonal from the small desk. Set up like that to keep the desk from being in between whatever two people are sitting in the chairs, he notes. A wise move for a sales person, Rick thinks as he does as Daryl demands and sits, as the atmosphere it immediately creates between them is an intimate one._

_“That the same Shane fellow who bought him that BB gun in the first place?” Daryl asks, and Rick's eyes go wide._

_“Yer kid told me,” the mechanic explains, ducking his head in a shy gesture that Rick wouldn't have thought natural of him until he sees it._

_“Easier for kids to tell the truth about certain things, I guess.” Rick laughs dryly. “He tell you about his mom, too?”_

_Daryl looks almost guilty, but nods._

_Rick takes a deep breath and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and dropping his head into his hands. He doesn't think about how much closer that brings him to Daryl._

_Manufactured intimacy, Rick reminds himself. Objects strategically placed to ensure trust._

_“I'm sorry,” he sits up straight again, trying to at least act like the gun-wielding law enforcer he is. “That Carl came here today. I know you said it wasn't nothin' major,” he talks through Daryl's attempted protests, “but you were right about what you said to him. If nothing else, it was dangerous. I swear, I raised my kid better than that.”_

_“Grief ain't a pretty thing on nobody,” Daryl shakes his head, “least of all a kid. I've seen it before. Hell, I've seen worlds worse.”_

_Rick knows that his next words might be going too far, but he figures he's got a little bit of leeway with the man, considering how close he'd come earlier to attacking him. “You mean Sophia?”_

_Daryl's returning gaze is sharp; a hair's breath away from the ruthlessness he'd seen before._

_Still, Rick's not a man easily scared once he understands the perimeters of a situation. “Saw the way she was,” he says, careful to keep his voice neutral. “Seen that before, on the job. Heard the way she called out for ya, too. Like she knew you'd keep her safe.”_

_Daryl ducks his gaze, retreating, at least for the moment, from his anger. “She's had a tough life.” He says finally, and when he looks up again there's an intensity in his gaze that makes the detective's breath falter. “Hopin' maybe that her and your boy havin' that in common might be good.” He pauses, “for both of 'em.”_

_Rick's left with the distinct impression that he might not be talking about just the kids._

“Yeah, Carl,” he finally gives his son a straight answer, and he even manages it with a smile. “I think we'll be spending some time out at Daryl's.”

Carl's ensuing enthusiasm makes Rick's heart soar, despite everything else he might be feeling. It's been so long, way too long, since his son's talked this adamantly or excitedly about anything, even video games.

Of course Rick has doubted his decision to bring them to the city after Lori's death, wondered if his own need to escape his past had clouded his judgment about what would be right for his son. He'd believed, honestly believed, though, that getting a fresh start would be best for both of them.

All the articles and books that he'd read in the weeks following his wife's death, mostly late at night when Carl's muffled sobs had provided the backdrop for his insomnia, had been torn about whether or not moving (for adults or children) was psychologically healthy or harming in the immediate wake of a tragedy. Some were of the opinion that removing a painful stimulus was for the best, others held firm that familiarity was the only way to cope with grief.

All of them pretty much agreed that taking away a support system was a bad idea, but seeing as his closest friends and family were all dead by then, that wasn't much of a consideration. Then one day Carl had come home from school barely restraining frustrated tears, and told him that he was sick of how kids and teachers alike were looking at him, how he hated being pitied and known only for what he'd lost. That had been the final nail in the final coffin for Rick. He'd made a desperate phone call to a man he'd only met a handful of times in his life, and despite Rick's doubts, Morgan had come through.

Carl's attitude since they'd arrived in the city, though, had left a lot to be desired. He doesn't know if he'd been expecting their move to be a magical fix or not, but Rick's spent more hours questioning his decision, even though he'd been so sure at the time that it was the right one, than he's spent congratulating himself for it.

_“Changing the scenery doesn't make your pain vanish, Grimes,”_ Morgan had told him that first day on the job. _“Don't think it does, or you might never heal.”_

Despite his friend's words of warning, Rick had let himself fall through the cracks of his emotions. Barely living, barely parenting, barely trying for weeks into months. He'd known his and Carl's lives couldn't go on like that, yet at the same time he’d known that they _could_. Knew that, if something didn't change, sooner rather than later, these months of grief-excused apathy would keep going until they morphed into something normal. And that sort of life just wasn't good enough for his son. Rick never wanted to be _that_ sort of parent.

Knowing that you need to make a change and actually making that change are different animals, though, and Rick's life has turned him into something so rock hard that he shatters at every wrong turn. His walls aren't strength; just crumbling ruins. It had taken meeting Daryl Dixon for him to really see that.

He might not be anybody to him yet, might not be anybody to him ever, but the man had left an impression on Rick today that's making him want for things he'll probably never get.

Rick had spent a wide minute lecturing Carl in that office at A&A's about the wrongness of his actions: told him that skipping school was a bad decision that had made Rick worry, and that disrespecting adults for no damn reason just wasn't acceptable. He'd put his foot down on Carl apologizing to Daryl and Aaron. When the elder of the two men hadn't accepted his son's apology as readily as his friend had, though, Rick had steeled himself for the worst.

Sitting there with a little girl on his lap, reading a book and blissfully unaware of the drama in front of her, Daryl certainty hadn't _looked_ very threatening, but then he'd made this face at Carl, this _you fucked up and I'm gonna damn well make sure you know why_ face, that had Rick's own gut clenching in fear. It was silly, as he knew that Daryl wasn't anywhere near as angry as he was capable of getting, but something about the man's ensuing words had left him feeling like a failure. Like he'd missed the point entirely.

And, truth is, he had.

Then the younger man had lifted his shirt and shown Carl – and him by extension – that scar. Rick will never forget that scar. Maybe two inches long total, its size had done nothing to detract from the harshness of its presence. Rough around the edges and red enough to look inflamed, Rick couldn't help but wonder how long ago it had been made, and what had done it. Underneath that curiosity was a bone-deep shame that he'd let Carl wander into a place where injuries like that might just be commonplace, especially if you don't know jack about jack, and he hadn't even mentioned that to his son in his attempt at fatherly reproach; overly concerned as he had been with manners and civility.

_“Can I ask?”_

_Daryl, who seems perfectly content with the silence that had spread between them, narrows his eyes just a little. “'Bout what?”_

_“That scar.” Rick nods towards the other man's abdomen. “Looked like a burn. I was just...just curious.”_

_Daryl shifts a little. “I was torchin' out part of your engine when your boy came in today. Lucky chance had me takin' a break when he actually made it through the door. Torch, hot as they are, easy'ta make a burn like that.”_

_Rick feels lightheaded again._

_“Easy, Charger,” Daryl's the one leaning forward this time, resting his hand on Rick's knee for a moment, barely a breath, before removing it and ducking his head instead, making sure their eyes meet. “Your kid got lucky, and, truth be told, that nasty ass thing I showed y'all didn't even happen here.”_

_Whether it's from Daryl's touch or his words, Rick feels his breathing leveling out. “It didn't?”_

_“Nope.” He chuckles. “Story 'bout breakin' Aaron's foot's a real one, though.”_

_“You lied.” He doesn't say it like an accusation. Mostly, he's just trying to absorb it._

_“Makin' a point.” He says it like he's expecting an argument, maybe even hoping for one. He wants that, Rick realizes, because he knows he's right, and that the most important lesson Carl had gotten today is the one that Daryl had given him. And he wants to argue because he wants to teach Rick something, too._

_Thing is, Rick's already learned._

_“Damn decent point, actually.” He flashes the younger man a smile that he hopes comes across like peace and submission. “You were right. Everything you said to him. I just...I've been...I haven't been doin' great with him, ever since...well, ever since we came here.”_

_Daryl nods like he'd already figured that out. “You'll do better.”_

_Rick wants to ask him how he could possibly know something like that; or maybe it's a demand more than a prediction. Either way, he wants to talk some more. And isn't that something? Because Rick hasn't wanted to talk to anyone since Shane had died. Certainty not about shit like this. And yet ten minutes alone with this man who'd been damn near ready to kill him over the perceived threat of a little girl's well-being, and Rick's opening up like it's a therapy session._

_Having always been a decent reader of people, Rick doesn't think that Daryl's the type to usually have in-depth conversations about his or anybody else's feelings._

_He looks almost like he's willing to, though, in that moment. Rick's heart's beating faster than it has in a long time, real emotion clouding his judgment, and just when he's about to open his mouth to say something, maybe something dumb, maybe something that will change everything, the front door opens and the moment shatters._

_That's when Rick meets Carol Peletier and Michonne Carmichael._

“Talked it over with him.” Rick tells his son once they've settled down with their meal. “This weekend we're gonna go out there. One of those women you met today – Carol? Sophia's mom? She and Sophia live with Daryl.”

“Sophia told me that.” Carl nods, chest all puffed up at having the same information as his father. “She said that people always think Daryl's her dad, and she lets them even though him and her mom sleep in different bedrooms.”

This little tidbit of information has that hopeful dragon in his chest, the one he'd told earlier to lie down because what it wants is never going to happen, raising its head in piqued curiosity. “Really?” He says, trying to sound casual.

“Yeah,” Carl nods. “She didn't really wanna talk about it much, but I think her dad, her real dad, was a bad guy.”

“I think you're right.” Rick says slowly, not sure how much of this truth he should share with his son. Honestly, he doesn't have much to share; knows only what he'd seen and what Daryl had said – that Sophia's had a tough life.

He warns his blooming hope that their sleeping arrangements could very well be a byproduct of Carol and Sophia's trauma, not a lack of want or intention on Daryl's part. Warns it farther that even if Daryl's relationship with Carol is as innocent as his own budding friendship with Glenn, that that doesn't mean Daryl would ever be interested in anything...well, else.

Daryl's the good 'ol boy type. Reminds Rick of farther South and back home. He wanders, actually, how a man like that had laid down roots this close to the city in the first place.

“I think...I think I want to be her friend, dad,” Carl tells him this like it's some big revelation, not an easy childhood desire. Whether that's because of the things he's lost or the mounting dramatization of all things teenage, Rick's not sure.

Playing it safe, he nods solemnly. “Follow your instincts, kiddo.” He gives Carl the same advice that his father had once offered him over the open hood of the car currently in Daryl Dixon's care. “They won't lead you wrong too often.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt the need to write a note here, but I don't really have anything pressing to say, except...Thank you guys so much for reading, and I hope you're liking the story thus far!
> 
> Oh, and as a totally random side note: I've been watching some old episodes of _Charmed_ on Netflix, and found a baby (not really, but geez did he look young) Norman Reedus in a two-episode arch as a love interest. An arch that ended with him being put in prison by a cop named, ironically enough, Darryl. Just a little fun fact for the day.


	5. Perfect Match

Chapter Five: Perfect Match

***

The Elantra that Rick had rented for the duration of the Charger's remaking is a ridiculous shade of forever-morphing blue and green. It's not a real color, even, as the man behind the desk at Enterprise had called it _Chameleon_.

_“That's a reptile,”_ Rick had deadpanned, but the guy had just shrugged, obviously not caring much.

_“It's what we've got available for long term renting right now.”_ So, of course, Rick had taken it.

Carl says he hates it because he can never find it in a crowd, when Rick picks him up from school or even when he scans their parking lot for it, since it's always a different color in different light. Morgan makes lighthearted jabs about it every time he sees it at the station. Daryl has, thankfully, not yet seen it.

Glenn's about the only person in his life that seems to like it, actually. Had been in awe over the changing composition and even made some noise about trading in his Tucson for a newer model with that color scheme.

“Or you could paint the one you got,” Rick suggests, and if it comes out a little reproachful, that's just because he's a father.

“Be cheaper to trade up at this point than get mine wrapped.” Glenn shrugs. “But I'm just talking. I love my baby.”

“Thought you weren't much of a car guy.” Rick says, wondering what the hell _wrapping_ is, but not wanting to ask.

“Classic cars,” Glenn says evenly. “Are not my thing. Honestly, neither are the tricked out fake race cars some of my buddies work on, but I do respect the innovation that goes into some of them. Like, I knew this one guy who started running E-85 in his Speed 3, which made it like riding a damn roller coaster, 'til his engine up and exploded.” The younger man laughs. “Which I guess is what you get. Didn't help that he'd hydro-locked his engine three years before that and kept driving it.”

Rick blinks stupidly. “Not a car guy,” he says slowly, “my _ass_.”

Glenn just laughs. “It's a culture I see a lot of in my line of work. Surprisingly. You pick up a thing or two.”

“What is it that you actually do for a living?” Rick asks, because he realizes right then that he doesn't have a clue. He knows it's got something to do with that computer setup in the man's living room, and that he seems to come and go at odd hours, and can almost always cancel his plans at the last minute. Rick had been assuming something along the lines of at-home telemarketing or video game designing.

“I collaborate with multiple organizations on behalf of various third parties.” He says without blinking.

Rick opens his mouth to prod farther, but then closes it again with a quick head shake. He likes Glenn. His son likes Glenn. No need to complicate this thing they've got going. “I don't wanna know.” He declares.

“Probably for the best.” Glenn nods, and looks supremely unconcerned about the whole matter.

“Anyway, it's gonna be a while yet before my Charger's running again,” Rick sits down across from the man with the cup of coffee he'd just fixed himself. Glenn is drinking a bright yellow, caffeinated, carbonated monstrosity that Rick really hopes he never lets Carl get his hands on. “Thinking about investing in a second car.”

“Huh,” Glenn says, looking more interested in this declaration than Rick thinks is strictly called for.

“What?”

“Nothing,” the younger man shakes his head, “just figured you'd be saving up for a house instead.” At Rick's look – probably as gob smacked as he feels – Glenn hastens to say, “Not that I'm assuming anything about your financial state. Just...taking a guess.”

“Never thought about buying a house out here.” Rick says, and it's the god's honest truth.

“Well, that's fair, too.” Glenn agrees readily. “Renting makes more sense in the city, sometimes. Know you came from farther south, figured you probably owned property there. You just kinda struck me as a front porch sorta guy. My bad.”

Rick stares at the rippling black of his coffee. He's never taken it with cream or sugar. Lori used to say that drinking it like that would give him ulcers.

“My wife used to want that,” he says without lifting his head. “A big house in the suburbs. Bigger than we had. Bigger than we could ever need. Used to go along with it 'cause...well, just 'cause.”

When Rick finally does look up, Glenn's wearing this expression that's a mix of pity and straight terror. The younger man, Rick thinks, is not used to emotional confessions. He shakes his head and attempts a grin. “Wanna go back to talking about cars?”

“Yes please.” Glenn nods rapidly.

Rick chuckles a little, and they do just that. He stops himself from thinking about what Daryl might have said, had he been sitting in Glenn's place.

***  
***

When Saturday rolls around, Daryl's kicking himself (and wanting to kick Aaron) for ever agreeing to let the Charger and his boy come over here.

“It's sweet.” Carol tells him, and does nothing at the hard glare Daryl tosses her way. He'd decided early on that he wouldn't change who he was in deference to Carol's husband and their past. He's never hit a woman in his life (save Michonne, but that's a whole other context), and he's not about to start. He'd figured that she'd get used to him, maybe figure out that men like him aren't the same as men like Ed. It seems to be working, too, because she hasn't flinched away from him in months.

“Ain't nuthin' sweet 'bout firearms.” Daryl grouches. “Your girl wanted to make doe eyes at the detective's son. That's the only reason this's happin'.”

“You might well and truly believe that, Daryl Dixon, but I'm gonna be the first one to lay the cards on the table straight.” She declares, sounding as firm as she does when she orders Sophia to finish her homework before watching TV.

“What truth you goin' on 'bout?”

“This Rick Grimes man.” She raises her eyebrows pointedly. “You've got a crush on him.”

Daryl snorts. “You're out'cha your damn mind,” he waves an arm in her general direction, huffing all the while. “First off, _crush_ is what your kid's got on his kid, nuthin' more. Second, I'm a grown ass man. I don't get _crushes_ ,” he spits it like the word's an insult, “I get _laid_.”

“Fine then,” she rolls her eyes. “You wanna _fuck_ Detective Rick Grimes. Call it whatever you want, but I know you, Daryl.”

“Please,” he shakes his head. “Man's got a dead wife and a dead...Shane, whoever the hell that man was'ta 'im, and he's raisin' that boy alone, and he's a _cop_.”

Carol looks at him like she's waiting for something more, and when Daryl does nothing but throw his arms up, she shakes her own head, if not knowingly. “Not a single one of those things precludes him from being interested in you.”

“Shuddup,” he grumbles, “ _Precludes_ ,” he spits back at her, focusing on that, “Yer startin'ta talk like Eric.”

“Eric's got more class than you and Aaron combined.” She counters. “And I'd rather Sophia not pick up your hillbilly slang, endearing as it is.”

“You insultin' my languagin' abilities, lady?” He asks in a low growl, though they both know it's a joke.

She smirks. “You're smart as a whip, Daryl. Don't know why you talk like a degenerate.”

“Am who I am,” he sighs and then shrugs. “Can't imagine no cop puttin' up with that, now can ya?” Maybe he's trying to make a point, and maybe he's really asking the question, he's not sure.

Carol is, though. “Said it was endearing, didn't I?” She smiles at him, one of those real ones he likes seeing on her and Sophie both. “Now, go see about that firewood 'round back. I'm gonna cook the last of that venison before it starts smelling like we've got bodies under the floorboards.”

Daryl's laugh catches him off guard, but Carol looks proud at having caused it. He rolls his eyes, still grinning. “Yes, dear.”

***  
***

Daryl's house is less than an hour outside of the city, less than half an hour from A&A's, and yet arriving at it's got Rick all but convinced he's back home.

“Damn,” he breathes, getting out of the car with his son and taking his first deep breath of clean air in months. He'd wondered before how and why a man like Daryl Dixon had migrated so close to the city, when country living is so obviously in his bones, but this residence provides a crystal clear answer: he's found the best of both worlds.

The house itself is a modest ranch style with a porch that just might be a wraparound and a large garage a ways off. Even from the driveway Rick can see the car parts scattered about the outside of it – because Daryl's obviously made his living doing something he loves.

“Sophia told me she had a really big backyard,” Carl sounds almost as awed as his father. “I didn't think she meant a _forest_.”

The young girl is the first one to greet them when they get to the house; running outside almost as soon as they're out of the car, she's grinning wide and obviously excited to see Carl again. If he hadn't already known, Rick would have never guessed that anything traumatic was lurking in this girl's past.

“My mom's making hamburgers out of _deer_.” She says in way of greeting. “And Daryl said I could shoot your BB gun if you said it was okay, but that you should say its okay because sharing is important.” She pauses just long enough to look at Rick. “Hi, Mr. Grimes.”

“Sophia,” he tips an imaginary hat at her, and she giggles.

“Yeah,” Carl's flushed a little around the neck and glancing around shyly. “You can...you can try out the BB gun. If you, y'know, if you want.”

Oh sweet jesus help them all, Rick can't help but think; his boy's got heart eyes for Daryl's little girl something fierce. Of course, if Carl turns out to be anything like Rick at all, he'll follow this first crush all the way down the aisle. It's what Rick had done with Lori, anyway. And god spare them the pain he'd suffered in doing that.

“Where're your parents at, Sophia?” Rick asks politely, gesturing a little to the house. “Inside?”

She shakes her head. “Out back. Come on, follow me.”

So they bypass the house all together. Rick follows Sophia, who's got a firm hold on Carl's wrist, around the side of the place. Once they clear the living structure, the true expanse of their land becomes even more apparent.

There's maybe a quarter of an acre of flat land, on which lies that garage Rick had seen from the front, a barbecue pit, some clothes lines, setups for hanging and gutting hunting kills, and a handful of other practical things. Beyond that there's a line of trees leading into the surrounding forest.

And while all of those things are registering with Rick's cop instincts – always be aware of your surroundings, always have a plan – the bulk of his conscious attention is pulled towards one Daryl Dixon; sweat soaked and chopping firewood at a stump in the middle of the yard.

Rick's been well aware of his fluctuating sexual orientation since back in those experimental days of college. He's got his own reasons for having ignored it for as long as he had, thanks very much, but he can't deny in that moment – with Daryl Dixon a living icon of rugged desirability right there in front of him – who he is and what he wants.

After Lori had died, one of the first things Rick had thought was: _I'll never love another woman ever again_. Thing is, maybe that hadn't just been the throes of grief getting the better of him. Because he _can't_ imagine ever settling down with a woman again, not after...well, not after what had happened.

What he can imagine, quite well, is Daryl.

“Hey there,” it's Carol who pulls him out of his thoughts, with a friendly wave from her spot by the barbecue. “See you found the place alright.”

“No problem at all, ma'am,” he responds without pause.

Carol, he forces himself to look at her – her wide grin, her relaxed posture; how safe she must feel, living here with Daryl after the life she and her daughter have had. Rick cannot, and never will, be the man to take that away from her.

“I've got a treehouse in the woods,” Sophia tells Carl then, stealing the adult's attention. “Wanna see?”

“Yeah.” His son answers. “Dad?”

It means everything to the detective that his son still looks at him for permission. He nods easily, because if it's here on this land with these adults overseeing it, he knows without seeing for himself that it's perfectly safe. “Please be careful,” he says all the same, because he's a father and some things will never change.

“Hey,” Daryl stops what he's doing suddenly, and turns to face them. He's dripping with sweat and focused solely on the kids. On Sophia, more specifically. “You got your phone and a knife?”

“Yes,” she nods, faking exasperation. “Can I go play with Carl now?”

It says something to Rick that she asks Daryl, and not her mother, this question. The mechanic exchanges a short glance with Carol, and then focuses his gaze on Rick.

Leaning against the stem of the ax, now firmly planted in the ground at his feet, Daryl raises his eyebrows at him. “That a'ight with you, Charger?”

“Fine by me,” he says easily. “I trust y'all.”

***  
“Nice piece of land ya got here,” Rick says casually after the kids do their disappearing act, sitting down at the picnic table they've got set up not far from the grill. “Didn't think there could be something this rural so close to Atlanta.”

Daryl tosses the last of his chopped wood into a pile and wipes his forehead with a towel. Carol says, “We like the space,” casually and inclusive, like she and Daryl are partners, and that makes Rick's gut churn painfully. “Can I get you a drink, Detective?”

“Rick, please,” he insists. Hearing the formal address is awkward, given the situation. “And yeah, I'll take whatever you've got.”

“I'll go in and grab some stuff,” she shuts the lid on the grill. “Daryl, you want lemonade?”

“Don't gotta fetch me nuthin',” the younger man bites, and while Rick's a little taken aback by the gruffness of it, Carol just smiles.

“Water it is,” she nods, like Daryl had actually made a request, and retreats through the back door.

Daryl sighs heavily. He sits down on the bench seat across from Rick, plucking little nothings off the towel in front of him. “She says I get polite mixed up with traumatized.” He shakes his head, and won't look up.

“It's kind of a unique situation,” he says carefully, “that you two've got going on here.” When Daryl's eyes find his, Rick makes sure to keep his expression soft. “It seems to be working. Sophia's a great kid, at any rate.”

Daryl shrugs, but he's smiling a little, trying to hide it behind ducked gazes and falling hair. It's amazing to Rick, that a man so strong, so terrifying even, can also be this shy. He's a circle with square edges, a puzzle with no border, a paradox set in plain sight. The more Rick sees, the more he wants to know.

“Your boy seems to've got a better handle on 'imself today than he did last time I saw 'im,” Daryl redirects, “How's that goin'?”

Rick sighs, but refuses to let himself feel anything but calm today. “Sometimes I can't tell the difference between trauma and teenage angst.”

Daryl releases a little chuckle at his words, and Rick's gut tightens. Painfully pleasant.

_“You get fucking moonstruck when you've got it bad for someone,”_ Shane had told him once, _“Turn useless. Obvious. Thank god you've got more subtlety on the job than you do in your love life, Grimes.”_

He's a different person today than he was when Shane had said those words to him, but part of it's a truth he'll never be rid of, one he can't control. Moonstruck, his mom used to say, is the power of light to control the tide.

“Don't know nothin' 'bout teenagers,” Daryl offers.

Carl'll be twelve next year, and by his own judgment Sophia can't be more than two years his junior. “You'll have one soon enough.” He says, trying for lighthearted; a shared bond.

But Daryl's gaze goes unexpectedly dark. “She ain't mine. Sophia.”

Rick's taken aback by those words. “She told Carl that she doesn't correct people when they assume you're her dad.” It hadn't been what he'd meant to say, or probably what he should have said, but Daryl's wide eyes tell him everything he needs to know about the man's sense of self-importance.

“She's young,” he shakes his head, completely dismissing what Rick's statement had inferred, “got hero-worshipin' mixed up with parenting.”

And Rick can't argue, not really; because he doesn't know the specifics of their situation. He doesn't know if Daryl sits down at night and helps her with her homework, doesn't know if he's there when Sophia has a bad dream, doesn't know if he comes home at the same time every night so as to provide her with a sense of security, he doesn't know if Daryl teaches her things, cooks for her, keeps the light on because she asks, or holds her when she cries. He doesn't know anything about this man's life, not for sure. But he can damn well take an educated guess. And he'd bet anything that Sophia is as much Daryl's daughter as Carl is Rick's son.

That's just him, though. He's always been an ace at reading the good in people.

“Well,” he lets it go, because this is a new sort of thing between them and he knows his place, “It's admirable what you're doing, regardless of what you call it.”

“What is it with all you mother fucks,” Daryl growls, obviously still feeling prickly about the matter, “Act like one good deed's cause for a mother fuckin' parade.”

“Don't mind Daryl,” Carol comes up from behind him, sparing Rick from having to respond to the younger man's words, “He doesn't take compliments well.”

All these people he's got in his life, though, who are willing to make excuses, apologize, on his behalf. Dale had done it the first day they'd met, and he can imagine that it's part of Aaron's job description – _don't let Daryl scare the customers_.

He wonders what Daryl's like totally on his own, without these people around to buffer his interactions. It's a funny thing to wonder, because Daryl's whole demeanor screams _solitude_. The slant of his eyes, the set of his shoulders, the fluidity of his movements; _contained like lightening_ , he'd thought when they'd met – feels longer than two weeks ago now – and he can tell that these people in his life are the ones doing the containing. Carol and Aaron, Dale, maybe that woman called Michonne he'd met only briefly, even Sophia. They keep Daryl settled, and it's not in a way that seems cruel, but it is a fence where there more than likely hadn't been one before.

“Take 'em just fine when they're fit,” Daryl says back at Carol, a little shame-faced at having been heard.

“Don't worry about it,” Rick tells her as she sets a drink in front of him, smiling his thanks but hopefully nothing else. “I don't scare too easy.”

“Well,” she sits across from him and next to Daryl, though with plenty of space between them, “that's a nice sentiment, but you haven't seen the man shoot yet, have you? Law man like you might just be put to shame by it.”

Rick's interest piques. “I've never been afraid of a little competition.”

“Well then,” she says, looking just surprised enough that Rick thinks it might be an act, “why don't you boys get a little practice in before the kids come back? Got a few target mats in the garage, don't you, Daryl?”

The younger man is looking at Carol like she might just be stark raving mad. “This your plan? Really?”

Rick doesn't know what he's talking about, and Carol does a decent job of faking innocent, too. “Don't know what you mean.” She says sweetly, and pats his arm before she stands up. “I'm gonna go get you boys set up.”

“There something goin' on I should know about?” Rick asks Daryl wearily once she's out of earshot.

The younger man sets his jaw tight, but in his eyes there's a look like he's resolved to take whatever's coming. “Just people meddling, man. Like one big circus act after the next.”

Fences and manufactured intimacy, Rick hears. Or maybe, just maybe, it's safety and opportunity.

***  
***

Daryl's life has never been a song. Not a sad country boy crying or rebellious rock'n'roll hope, not a melancholic ballad or the screeching of thrash metal, certainly nothing like those little ditties his ma had sung once upon a lifetime ago; nothing in any of it to help light up the path his life was supposed to take. Can't really blame anybody for not wanting to sing about his story, though.

Truth is, wasn't too long ago that he didn't have a place in the world. No one to miss him if he were gone, nobody to answer to or try to impress, and not a single reason to feel guilty about anything he did. Always thought he liked it that way, too. The freedom.

Had liked it, really. String free and no regrets. Going where he wanted whenever he wanted, different city every few weeks, no people in his life with feelings of their own to account for. He's got a whole horde of them these days – people; but he remembers being alone like it was yesterday. Pretty much had been yesterday, in the grand scheme of things.

Dale had been the first – because he'd never let Abraham Ford get close enough to count, no matter what the mother fucker might like saying – but Dale had been easy; something in the background, steady and with a shadow a sight too long, but alright for him. Dale had offered him security, and at the time that had felt like a bet worth making.

Then Aaron had come, a little bit at a time, always present by necessity and design, and he’d let gotten close the same way a hunter hunts; one step at a time, always measured, silent, until the weapon's right up on you and there's nothing to be done but accept your fate. Only in this case, Daryl had been the hunted and Aaron's weapon had been friendship; more powerful than the one hundred and fifty pound draw on his crossbow, if you do it right.

And since people breed more people, the lot of them had just kept stacking up. Aaron had included Eric, and then Dale had introduced Beth. Beth had brought Maggie with her, and Maggie might have tugged Hershel along, had Hershel not already been in his small little web of other humans beings worth giving a shit about. Full circle, is what that had been. A fucking storybook ending for the ages.

He'd been looking for something very specific the day he'd found Michonne, and maybe it's a good thing he'd had so many people by then, because the older version of Daryl fuckin' Dixon wouldn't have accepted her as an option. Turned out being that she was probably the only person in the world who could have given him what he'd needed back then, what he still needs now, and he'll be damned if he's letting her go anytime soon.

Somewhere along the line he'd learned that this people stuff goes both ways.

He hadn't gotten Carol and Sophia without a fight, and it'd been the biggest one he'd ever put up for someone who wasn't his kin. Best thing for them both, really, not being his blood, and that's not a truth he's going to let them, or himself, forget – no matter what little jokes Aaron keeps making or what Rick Grimes had assumed without knowing jack about it. Daryl had fought for both them girls, fought hard, but not because he'd wanted them for his own. Dixons don't make for good relations, even this far away from the origins of the story.

Most normal folk, they collect their people in drips and drabs over decades or more, through ties that don't break easy. Daryl, on the other hand, had acquired his by accident and mostly through nothing. It all feels temporary some days, when he thinks about it, but the want for security had been beaten out of him years ago, and he's perfectly content taking what he can get while it's still here.

There's no use in him saying he doesn't want these people around him, not anymore. Actions mean the most, and for all the times Daryl could have left everything behind, he'd chosen to stay.

_“Domesticated pussy-whipped little bitch,”_ his brother says, and that's where the anger comes from. Because sometimes he still feels like Merle's right.

By the time Rick Grimes shows up in his world, Daryl's still not totally used to all these people, but he has gotten a lot better at telling Merle to shut the fuck up.

***

 

Daryl feels more at ease with a weapon in his hand, and he can tell just by watching him that this is something him and Rick Grimes have in common.

“The .45 gonna be a problem?” the detective asks a few minutes after he pulls it out; studying the target Carol had set up before going back to the grill, and loading his chamber. When Daryl questions his words with a quirked eyebrow, the older man tilts his head and specifies, “For Sophia?”

Daryl sighs deeply. “Might be,” he says honestly, because there isn't a way around that. “Haveta see.”

Rick nods his acceptance and makes to line up his first shot. Daryl had figured on starting them out easy, no farther away from their standard police issue target sheet than they'd be at a range (which is actually where Daryl had stolen them from, but the cop in his backyard doesn't need to know that). Rick triple checks his surroundings before leveling his stance and pulling the trigger.

Gunshots echo out here in a way they can't in the city. Makes death feel bigger, and betrayals seem worse. Turns out, it also morphs simple moments into longer ones.

Rick's shot had landed in the bull's eye.

Daryl whistles low. “Ain't bad for a cop.” And maybe he thinks its sweet, the way the older man smiles and ducks his gaze for a beat before meeting Daryl's approval with pride. “Keep it up,” he encourages. “One chamber each.”

So Rick unloads the rest of his bullets with his elbows locked and his left hand under the base of the gun just like they teach in cop school. When he's done, Daryl gets close enough to look at the sheet. Two more in the bull's eye, the others all close in the first surrounding circle.

“A'ight,” he nods, walking back over. “My turn. You decide. Your gun or one'a the riffles?”

Carol had unloaded some of his arsenal when she'd gotten the target sheets out of the garage, but most of its still locked up in there, safe where it belongs with kids running around all over the place.

“You got a handgun?” Rick asks.

“A nine mil inside.” He says. “Carol's, really. Rest I got are for game hunting. Deer mostly, 'round these parts.”

Rick nods once and looks like he's thinking something through. Daryl's not generally a patient person, but for this man he waits. After a spell Rick says, “Use mine. Make it a fair draw.”

“You don't know nuthin' 'bout fair, Office Friendly.” He says, and mostly it's teasing, but a little bit of that's Merle, too. _Goad the little piggies 'til they squeal squeal squeal, all the way home_. He shakes his brother out of his mind and takes the gun from Rick's hand. Their fingers brush at the exchange, and Daryl likes the contact, the heat and the intention.

The first time he'd seen Rick's eyes up close he'd thought their color gray, steel even, in the artificial light at Dale's; but outside in the sun they glint like ice. A lighter version of his own. He sees something in them now that reads like want, and while Merle's voice is kicking up a right storm in the back of his head – _not our type'a folk, little brother, don't even bother_ – louder voices, more important ones, are telling him to trust what's right in front of him.

Rick withdraws from the stare before it gets the chance to go anywhere farther than _maybe_ , but Daryl's always known how to work with what he's got.

He loads the gun with deft fingers, steps about to where Rick had shot from, pauses like it means something, and then walks backwards not a small number of paces. Rick stays where he'd been, out of the way of course, but with amusement written clear as day on his face.

“You tryin' to prove something, Daryl?”

“Nah,” he shakes his head. “Just uppin' the stakes a little.”

_Showing off_ , he doesn't have to be told. He's fucking showing off.

And he's damn well gonna do it right.

He fires every shot with barely a breath between them, and his ears are ringing with it when he's through.

Rick's eager to get to the target, but halfway there he tosses a look over his shoulder that reads like threadbare disappointment. Daryl had shot at the same target Rick had. “Don't see anything.”

The younger man smirks. Easy as conning a tweaked out meth head the week after Christmas. “Look again, Charger.”

So Rick gets closer. When he's right up on it he sees – every single hole in the paper is just a hair wider than it should be. A second shot in all of them.

Daryl creeps up behind him while Rick's still staring at it, seemingly at a loss. “Well, whaddya know,” he says over the other man's shoulder, smirking a little when he whips around, startled by the sudden approach and hiding it poorly. “We're a perfect match.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of Daryl flirting by lining up their shots perfectly was born from a deleted scene of the pilot episode of _Psych_. Shassie Forever  <3


	6. Moonstruck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Saturday!

***  
***

Daryl Dixon is a fucking crack shot, Rick thinks wildly, still jilted by the man's silent approach. They're face to face now, just a hair too close for totally casual, and Rick might've gotten stuck on that, if he weren't already stuck on _damn this man can handle a weapon_ and the growing heat in his belly.

“Who in the hell taught you how to shoot like that?” He asks stupidly, his mouth getting away from him.

Apparently it's the wrong question, because Daryl's expression closes off. He doesn't back away, though, and that's something. What sort of thing, he's not sure yet, but some kind of one nonetheless.

“'S'in my blood,” he answers. “Been handlin' guns forever. Ain't nothin' much to it anymore.”

Rick doesn't say anything about skill and practice not always going hand-in-hand, doesn't utter a word about the half dozen men he knows who've been firing weapons since they were in diapers, are older than Daryl now, and still can't shoot like that. The man had nearly doubled the distance Rick had had on that target and still put him to shame. Just like Carol said he would.

Man's a crack shot, he thinks again. Aim like an overlord, strike like lightening.

“You're lethal.” Rick tells him, and he's not sure what those words are, but Daryl takes them in stride.

“Used to be people called it feral.” He offers, because it doesn't seem to matter that every other sentence he utters comes out like an English professor's worst nightmare, Daryl Dixon ain't nobody's fool.

“Got fenced in somewhere down the line, didn't ya?”

His eyes narrow to slits, and the remaining space between them vanishes when he takes a step closer. “You wanna say somethin' to me?”

Rick does, oh brother in hell does he. Instead of rising to the bait, or giving in to his wants – _Carol_ , he reminds himself, _Carol and Sophia and a life he's not taking away_ – he stands his ground and levels his gaze. “Called it lethal, didn't I?”

They stay like that for a rumbling eternity, facing off like men under fire. Maybe something outside the two of them would have broken it, given different circumstances, but the world is a quiet one for this moment.

Daryl's the first to step back, shaking his head like exasperated is a natural conclusion to drawn tight enough to snap. Maybe, Rick thinks, once upon a different, louder world, it had been. Daryl's the first to step back, to take the threat away, but Rick's the first to offer a smile. They fold differently, and both of them only in parts.

Neither one of them breaks eye contact.

***

Watching Daryl teach Carl how to handle a gun – even if it is the BB gun Shane had bought him years ago – makes a different sort of heat pool in his gut. This one's warmer, fuller, and means just as much.

“He's good with your son.” Carol's standing back with him, watching.

The kids had come out of the woods smiling and laughing, full of childhood secrets that adults are incapable of understanding with anything save nostalgia. They'd eaten venison burgers and baked potatoes at the picnic table, Carl and Sophia the center of conversation, with Rick and Carol answering questions and offering opinions while Daryl had stayed mostly quiet, unless spoken to directly, but seemingly content to leave it that way.

“He is,” Rick says honestly, cringing when guilt joins the mounting...thing in his gut that he's not putting a name on just yet. “With your daughter, too.”

“Oh, Sophia worships that man,” Carol says with a laugh that's a little sad around the edges.

“Daryl told me earlier that she's got hero-worshiping mixed up with parenting,” Rick shakes his head, not able to tear his eyes away from the sight in front of him – Daryl crouched down in front of the kids explaining something calmly, their attentions rapt. “But from what I've seen, she isn't mixed up about anything.”

“He's done right by us.” Carol says calmly. “But we've all got our demons.” Rick does glance at her then, but her gaze is glued to Daryl and the kids as much as Rick's just was. She looks at Daryl like she owes him everything and thinks she can never make it up to him – Rick's seen that expression before, albeit misplaced, from victims of crime, always directed at him or his fellow officers. They usually realize that they'd just been doing their jobs, in time, and while most remain grateful, none really stay in their lives. Which is as it should be.

But Daryl's not a cop and Carol...well, Carol might be a victim. He won't presume to call her one, because he doesn't know the story. Daryl had saved her, though. That he can see plain as day.

“I just want you to know, I'm not going to take him away from you.”

It's not the smartest thing to say just then, but Rick thinks that's more to do with timing than content. These are words he'd say eventually anyway, because Rick's an honest man, and, truth be told, he'd rather have them out in the open now. He doesn't like putting things off.

_“You are, though, aren't you?”_ The words sound like Lori's whisper in the wind. _“You've never even thought the truth, have you?”_

But he's not ready to go there yet.

“Sophia and Carl keep spending time together,” Rick goes on, pushing away the voice of his late wife. “Might be seeing more of me, might like to keep coming around, honestly.” God, he's babbling. “But I'm not...not looking to...he's yours. I get that.”

Carol inhales sharply and turns suddenly, facing him outright. “Rick, I don't think-”

“Mom!” Sophia comes flying over just then, interrupting whatever the older woman had been about to say – probably wanting to set him straight about why his words were meaningless in the first place, _“Daryl's not like that, anyway, Detective Grimes, so you don't have to worry.”_ \- capturing her mother's full attention at once. “Come watch us shoot.”

Her enthusiasm is buoying, and Rick grins at it. He's said his piece. He now feels comfortable enough to let this budding friendship with Daryl grow, knowing full well that it won't ever go farther than that, and knowing that Carol knows that, too.

_“Moonstruck, brother,”_ The memory of Shane's laughter echoes. _“You get gone for people way too fast.”_

***

Rick sits cross-legged on his bed that night with a tattered shoe box in front of him.

Carl's long since gone to bed, exhausted by the physical activity of the day despite the excitement that the emotional aspect of it had brought.

_“Sophia's gonna be in the same school as me next year,”_ his son had told him on their drive home. _“And she's only one grade below me, because we're almost the same age, and she said she might even skip a grade after that because the teacher keeps telling her mom and Daryl that she probably could if she wanted to.”_

He's already proud for her, Rick had thought, and it'd lifted a weight from him that had been getting heavier and heavier every day since they'd moved here.

How far had they fallen, the detective asks himself with a private grimace, that a blooming friendship feels like mercy? It's that question, twisted up with guilt and anger, that had gotten Rick to pull this box out of his closet tonight.

He hasn't opened the lid on this since the night Lori had died, and just thinking about that makes fear leap to life in his chest. He'd heard their voices earlier, Lori and Shane's. And maybe that had been in his head, and maybe it'd been the dead coming back to haunt him, but he'd heard them all the same. Has been, on and off, since Lori had left them.

He's not crazy – at least, he doesn't think he is. He's always had a vivid imagination, and those two voices are so ingrained in his mind that why shouldn't he hear them every now and again? Memories, they're just memories. Always his thoughts.

_“Then why haven't you opened that box?”_

“Because I don't need to.” He says out loud, though it's a whisper all his own. “I loved you both. That's all I need.”

_“Don't be a fool, Rick.”_ Lori scoffs. She had this face she used to make when she thought Rick was too in the wrong to even be talked with. He'd hated it. He sees it now.

“I loved you both.” He repeats. It feels almost like a different kind of past-tense, and that makes him desperate. “That's all I need.”

He shuts his eyes tight and wills them away when they try to argue with him again. He's just fighting with himself, he knows that. He's trying to reconcile what he's feeling for Daryl Dixon with how he'd felt for his wife and Shane. It's a complicated mess of emotions, the lot of them, and he's never sorted them right – not in his head, and certainly not out loud.

Morgan had asked him, before he'd gotten him the job with the Atlanta precinct, if he'd talked to anyone after his wife's death. Rick still feels a little guilty for lying to him about it, but he'd known Morgan wouldn't have stuck his neck out for him the way he had if he'd thought Rick was too broken, and Rick, in turn, had known that the only way to mend was to escape King County.

He's thought about it since he's been here, turning his lie to truth by visiting a psychiatrist or something, and someday he even might. Just as soon as he can get the words settled right in his head. As soon as he can think it to himself, think it and not just know it, he'll go see about a head shrinker. Deciding this firmly, not just in the _maybe, someday_ kind of way it's been drifting around as for months now, settles his resolve.

Without letting his eyes focus, he gets up and carries the box back to his closet and places it in on the highest shelf in the back. That's good enough for today, he decides. One step at a time.

He crawls into bed that night with thoughts of his son's happiness and Daryl Dixon's sandy blonde hair and cobalt blue eyes cocooning him, shielding him from anything darker.

***  
***

There's a four day stretch where Daryl can't work on the Charger because they're stuck waiting on parts, and he misses it. Rusted up trucks and newly designed SUVs just don't hold a candle to what that Charger's got to offer; wide and sleek with deeper crevices than you might guess just by looking, the Charger's got surprises and idiosyncrasies where most everything else they see in the shop is just as, or even more, boring than it looks.

“If I gotta do one more set'a ball joints on a Cavalier, I'mma kill Dale,” Daryl grouches on that fourth afternoon. Five days since Rick and his son had come to his house, five days straight of Sophia talking about the detective's son and Carol prodding his intentions with barely veiled innuendos.

“At least you've got _work_ ,” Aaron snaps right back. It's been slow lately, and they've both been on edge because of it. “I've done sixty-seven oil changes in the past three days.”

The number is exaggerated, of course, but it might as well not be. Some days Daryl wants to up and sucker punch Dale for never having hired more people to help them out with their influx of work (mostly around the peak of summer), but other days (today), he can't help but understand the logic. Can't pay someone to sit around all day twiddling their thumbs. Besides, when push comes to shove, Dale _can_ still wrench with the best of them, he just doesn't care for it much these days. Daryl doesn't like thinking about what'll happen to this place when the older man finally decides to retire.

“I'm splittin' after this shit's done,” he informs his friend, making the decision on the spot.

“Fuck if I care,” Aaron shrugs as he tops off the oil in a Matrix. “Nothin' else is gonna come in tonight. Might even close up early.” On days Dale doesn't work, he and Aaron take turns shutting down the shop.

Forty minutes later, washed up and sporting mostly clean clothes, Daryl's just about ready to head out – “Don't forget to tell that Cobalt to go somewhere for an alignment. Steering wheel's 'bout upside down.” He offers in parting to Aaron – when someone comes in.

He and Aaron keep the shop door propped open when Dale's not around – less concerned as they are about shielding the customers from their loud and often inappropriate antics – so Daryl catches the arrival before he might have otherwise.

As good as he'd looked handling a gun wearing a Polo and jeans, Rick Grimes is a man made to wear a suit. Some men just have the build – the demeanor, the attitude, the life – for collars and jackets, pressed pants and ties. Daryl's never been one of them, but he can see it in others. Still tickles him pink that Abraham Ford is one of those men, but seeing him side-by-side with Rick, Daryl can't deny that that's most definitely a thing they have in common.

Hopefully one of the only things.

“Tell me they don't make you work with this mother fucker,” he says to Rick in greeting when they get close enough. The detective he knows and likes tilts his head and struggles to bite back a grin at Daryl's question. The detective he knows and hates snorts pompously.

“That any way to talk to a paying customer, Dixon?” Ford's got his hands on his hips, elbows spread like _he's_ the alpha male in the room.

“You find another place that'll even _look_ at a '53 3100 an' you've got my blessing to move along,” he widens his stance like he would if he were getting ready to fight. Hell, with Abraham Ford, he's always ready for a fight.

“Where's your more personable half?” Ford asks. “I gotta question, and I don't need twenty minutes of bullshit to get an answer.”

“This official police business then?” He demands, “Or do'ya jus' get off on wastin' tax-payer's money?”

“We were just passing through, on our way to talk to a witness,” Rick answers, before either of them gets the chance to continue their well-practiced verbal dueling. “Ford wanted to see about something with you guys, and I thought I'd look in on the Charger.”

Daryl glares hard at the red-haired asshole, but reserves a softer look for the other man. “Dale's not here, Aaron's in the shop,” he says shortly, liking the way Ford rushes to get away from him as soon as he's got a direction to go in.

“Last time we were alone in here,” Rick says, breaking the silence once Ford's gone, “I kinda thought you might kill me.”

Daryl hasn't thought much about that particular interaction of theirs. It's more important to him what had happened after – the conversation they'd had at that desk not ten feet from where they're standing now, their afternoon of shooting guns and bending to the whims of children. That second afternoon of their acquaintance had mostly faded from his mind, in fact, but Rick brings it back now, and he grins, maybe a little sheepishly, but not with regret.

“Won't apologize for that, Charger,” he tells the other man firmly, though with an undercurrent of humor. “How's it feel, knowin' a ten-year-old saved your ass?”

Rick laughs outright, and all the thoughts he'd had about him actually being upset about that afternoon vanish. “Feels like that same ten-year-old's got you wrapped around her finger, actually.”

Daryl snorts. Man's got a decent point with that, and he ain't about to deny it. “Got me there.”

“How's my car?” He asks, craning his neck a little to look out in the shop.

Thankfully for both of them, the Charger can't be seen from where they're standing. “In more pieces than you probably ever knew a car could be in, tell ya the truth.” He answers. “Best not to look at'er right now. Might arrest me on the spot.”

Rick chuckles, but does stop trying to sneak a peek, instead focusing wholly on Daryl. “Y'know, Ford _is_ the one who told me to come see you about work on that car in the first place, but he said I'd better not let you know he was the one who sent me. Never did get a chance to ask why y'all act like you hate each other so much.”

“Not an act,” Daryl tells him, and can read the responding doubt without trying. “Maybe it ain't the whole truth'a the matter no more, but there was a time I'd've rather shot the man than be in a room with 'im.”

Rick hums, and studies him carefully. “He said he's known you since you were young. And I know he was a beat cop not a county line over from where I worked before I came here.”

“Oh yeah?” Daryl asks, and can't help it if he's interested in that. “Where ya from?”

“King County.”

He whistles low. “Fuck, man, we'd've been all but neighbors.”

“You're from Deacon Hills, aren't you?” And he's not looking at Daryl like the shit you scrape off the bottom of your boot when he says it, so that's something, but hearing the name of the city he'd spent the most unfortunate sixteen years of his life stuck in still has him retracting a little bit.

He'd settled in Atlanta because he’d thought it was far enough away from the life he’d had before that he wouldn’t be running into the past at every wrong turn.

Still, not Rick's fault his parents had been well-off country folk (no other types live in King County), and in the end the man had run from his home as much as Daryl had run from his.

“Yeah,” he admits, and almost hates doing it. “And you worked for the county, right? Sheriff's deputy?”

Rick huffs his surprise. “Ford tell you that?”

“Nah, man, just got an eye for cops.” He can't remember the last time he'd talked this openly to someone about his past. At least, not without a lot more coaxing and a shit ton of alcohol.

“So what brought you to the city?” Rick asks, and he looks so genuinely and intensely curious that Daryl's a little taken aback. “'Cause that house you've got tells me it wasn't an actual desire to live in the city.”

“Spent a long time wandering around,” he says, though as uncharacteristically open as he feels like being today, he's not about to go explaining to this guy _why_ he'd spent half his life living like a nomad. “Got to the other side'a the damn country, even, but I always wound up back here. Found that land the same day Dale asked me'ta stay here permanent. Seemed as good an idea as any other.”

“That's...” Rick's staring at him with open wonderment. It's making the back of his throat itch. “I can't even imagine that. I've always been that guy with a _plan_ , y'know? Planned out goin' to school, planned out getting married, having kids, my job, my retirement, all of it. I know exactly how much money I'd have in the bank right now, down to the last damn dime, if Lori hadn't died. That's how much I had-”

He stops abruptly, and it doesn't take more than common sense to figure out that it's because his late wife's name had rolled off his lips without thought.

“You alright?” Daryl asks, trying to sound casual but pretty sure real concern had gotten in there somehow. He remembers how pale and dizzy-looking the man had gone last time, when he'd accidentally brought the name Shane up. Remembers making him sit down in that too-close-for-comfort desk chair that Dale insists they keep right where it is. Rick had leaned forward that day, head in his hands, and Daryl had touched him, just his knee and just for a second, but it had stayed with him, that action, because touching people doesn't always come natural to him.

He seems just as dazed right now as he had then, and Daryl wishes they were closer to any of the chairs in this room, so that he could direct the man to sit down again without feeling like an overly imposing bastard.

“I'm fine,” Rick shakes his head some, and his vision seems to clear. He leans against the counter, but it looks casual enough, and Daryl knows it's about needing stability, yeah, but he's not gonna go pointing that out. “Just hits me sometimes, how different things are now.” He runs a hand over his face – clean shaven today – and takes a breath. “Sorry. You don't wanna hear this.”

Daryl really hates it when people tell him what he wants. “How long's it been? Since she died?”

Rick's used to hearing softer words, probably, but his sharp look in Daryl's direction is more relief than anger. “Eight months. Almost.”

That's about what Daryl had been expecting. He nods. He opens his mouth to say something, and then snaps it shut again when he realizes _what_ , exactly, he'd been about to share. But then he looks at Rick Grimes, really looks at him, and sees a desperation that he hadn't let himself fully comprehend before.

Good men deserve life rafts when they're drowning.

“I...I was just a little younger'an Carl, when my ma died,” he says slowly, grabbing Rick's gaze and holding it. “Whole different kinda life, different worlds, but grief's one'a those things, whadda they call it? The same for everyone, puts us all at the same level.”

“Unifying.” Rick offers. He's watching Daryl intently.

“Right.” He nods. “ _Unifying_. Mighta been nice, back then, if people woulda talked about her every once in a while. Get why they didn't. Same reason I didn't. But I was a kid, and if there's one thing I know it's what _your_ kid's goin' through right now. Don't turn his mother in'ta somethin' that's gonna haunt him. Not even if she deserves it.”

“I...” Rick blinks rapidly a few times. “I never thought...no one's ever said that to me, not that way. It...that makes sense, I think. No, it does. I've been lettin' her...” he trails off again, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.

Daryl would be content enough to leave him there, having talked himself out for the day at any rate, but Rick doesn't stay distracted for long. Daryl sees the moment that he comes back to himself, pushing everything else away for the time being, and settling on Daryl once again. It should wear him out, being the center of someone's attention like that for so long – it usually does, at least with adults – but something about Rick's focus leaves him feeling calm more than anything else. “I'm sorry about your mom.”

“Been years,” he shakes his head. “'Sides, it's like I said: different worlds.”

“But you still remember how it was back then,” Rick says, and Daryl can't tell if he's thinking about him or Carl. “I was so much older when my parents died. I was already married, Carl was young. The way he is now...what he's been going through with losing his mom, losing Shane...I think maybe part of it, part of why I haven't been able to help him's been because I just don't know. I was happy when I was his age. Didn't have to deal with shit like that 'til I was old enough for it.”

Losing your parents might be one thing, but Daryl doesn't think anyone's ever _old enough_ to get their wife ripped away from them the way this man had. Neither of the Grimes' have gone into detail about who _Shane_ had been to them, but Daryl doesn't need the specifics to see that losing that man had hit them nearly as hard as losing Lori had. He wonders for the first time which of them had died first, or if it had somehow happened together.

“Get him out doin' shit.” Daryl says suddenly, biting his lip when Rick furrows his brow, but not backing down. “Cooped up in one place, school or your house or whatever, that's what's gonna drive your kid crazy. Huntin' and workin's 'bout the only things kept me alive when I was his age.”

“I...you're not the first person to tell me something like that.” Rick admits, looking thoughtful. “Truth is, I've been afraid to push it with him.”

“Push it, man,” is all Daryl says. “Kid'll thank you for it someday.”


	7. Pushing It

***

Rick and Ford talk to their witness for two hours without much problem – she'd dated their suspect back in college, and has a lot to tell them about who he'd been then, what he'd turned into, and why. There's more psychology to being a cop than he would've guessed when he was in school himself, and interactions like this don't leave a lot of room for personal problems.

So for a few hours Rick doesn't think about his own life, his son's pain, or Daryl's opinion on either of those things.

The drive back into the city doesn't require as much focus, however – especially since Ford's the one behind the wheel – and Rick finds his thoughts drifting to his conversation with Daryl.

_“Don't turn his mother in'ta somethin' that's gonna haunt him. Not even if she deserves it.”_

Had Daryl really been able to read the situation, his and Carl's grief and the ways they'd been trying to cope with it, so well, or had he just been talking from personal experience and gotten lucky? His words had felt like a revelation either way. Lori and Shane...they _have_ been haunting him. They're inside his head, so loud sometimes that he hears them like they're right next to him again, and he's been trying to deal with that.

He'd gotten this job and stays focused on making the world a better, safer place while he's doing it. He'd committed to getting that Charger up and running again because he knows it's an untainted piece of the past that he'll hand over to Carl one day. He'd encouraged his son's interactions with Glenn and embraced friendship with the man himself, even if the crush the kid might have on him makes him nervous. And when Daryl had come along, with his foul mouth, dirty fingernails, and no bullshit attitude, Rick had opened himself to the possibility of a relationship (friendship, he mentally corrects, a different sort of friendship) with the man and all the people that come with him, because he'd known it would be good for him and Carl both.

None of that's enough, though. None of it even comes close, if Lori and Shane wind up being ghosts in Carl's head, too.

_“Not even if she deserves it.”_

Daryl couldn't have known what truth he'd gotten so close to with those words. Could he?

“You think Marcus Mandella will get us any closer to tracking down Blake?” Ford's question snaps him back to the present.

“I think he's worth a shot,” Rick replies honestly. “If we can find him.” He waits approximately five seconds, just to make sure the other man doesn't have anything pressing to add, before he asks, “How do you know Daryl Dixon, really?”

“That's a long story, son,” Ford chuckles softly, but doesn't sound surprised that Rick had asked. “And it ain't one I go 'round tellin'.”

“I was just...” he feels chastised for asking, maybe rightfully so. “He knows about, 'bout why I came up to Atlanta. Had some thoughts on some stuff. Things.” He shrugs. “Just wanted to get a feel for his history.”

Ford shakes his head and sighs deeply, though when Rick glances over he's got a crooked smile on his face. “Used to be a time that, if you told me Dixon'd be hittin' it off with a cop, I'd'a 'bout shit myself laughing.”

Something occurs to Rick then. “I ran a background check on everyone at A&A's before I took my car there. Daryl doesn't have any sort of record.” He thinks about it. “Unless he was a minor.”

“You're barkin' up the wrong tree asking me those sorts of questions, Grimes,” Ford says firmly, not taking his eyes off the road even as his hands grip the steering wheel visibly tighter. “I owe Daryl a lot, and respecting his privacy's about one of the only things he'll let me give'im.”

Those words throw Rick. He'd had an idea about what the history between these two men might be, but what Abraham had just said pretty much obliterates his half-formed theories. He couldn't have anticipated Ford's loyalty to the man being this strong, nor would he have ever guessed at the guilt. But that's what he hears in his partner's declaration; solidarity and trying to make amends.

“I apologize,” he says sincerely. “I was just trying to get to know him.”

“Then go get to know him,” Ford snorts, back to his usual level voice, always with a hint of superiority – like he's in on a joke and waiting for everyone else to catch up. “'Cause I will tell ya this much; if Daryl Dixon talked at you about grief and the shit you're dealing with, then I'd listen to him if I were you, 'cause that boy knows his fair share about how cruel this world can be.”

Rick takes those words to heart. He knows he'll never be able to relate to what his son's going through at having lost his mom and Shane at such a young age, but other people might be capable of it. Daryl, and the woman and child he's sheltering like they're his own, they might be able to give his son exactly what he needs to be alright again someday.

And from this moment forward, he's going to fight like hell to keep these people in their lives, no matter what the cost.

***

He doesn't think of Glenn as a babysitter.

For one, Carl would kick his heels up at having anyone called that in reference to him since he's, _“Eleven years old, dad, I don't need anyone to watch me, I can take care of myself.”_ And two, because when Carl had first started drifting down the hall, where Glenn's apartment offered unlimited amounts of junk food, horror movies, and virtual realities to hide in, Rick had offered the younger man money for his time.

Glenn had refused him adamantly. _“I don't mind having Carl around,”_ he'd said, _“And I definitely don't mind helping you out. You're a good guy.”_ The way he'd looked at him then had been what first got Rick thinking that maybe the younger man was gay. It had surprised him at first, but not because he thought there was anything wrong with it. Given his own past, that would have been beyond hypocritical; and besides, Rick wasn't the type of man who judged others based on that sort of thing, regardless.

No, his surprise had been something inborn, from having grown up as deep in the South as he had. _“Aren't you afraid?”_ He'd wanted to ask. _“Don't you have to hide it?”_ But Atlanta is not the bible belt, and that ingrained nervousness is something he'd rather be rid of, anyway. He remembers how liberating college had been – free to explore parts of himself without fear for the first time – and thinks that alone is justification enough for moving Carl away from King County.

So, Glenn might be gay, and Carl might spend too much time playing video games with him, but in the end, Rick rather his son be exposed to different sorts of people. He's grateful to Glenn for voluntarily being one of those people.

That night when he gets home – his visit to A&A's and his conversation with Daryl and Ford both still fresh in his mind – Rick changes into casual clothes and orders Chinese food. He fetches Carl from Glenn's and offers the younger man a spot at their table for dinner, but he bows out politely, stating that he's got some work-related things to see to.

Carl's been happier this past week, after spending Saturday at Daryl's, but that afternoon hadn't been a cure-all, and Rick can still see the anger and the sadness built up all around him.

As he sits there watching his son poke at an eggroll with his chopsticks, a memory hits him hard and sudden. Not long ago he might have pushed a thought like that to the side, forced himself to focus on the present, but Daryl's words had been a revelation, and he'd be a fool to ignore something like that.

“Your mom hated egg rolls, too.” He says before he can talk himself out of it.

Carl's expression is as pissed off as it is hopeful. “What?” He scrunches up his whole face, like he thinks he's walking into a trap.

He'd done that, Rick knows, letting the full weight of his guilt settle in his gut. He's already made Lori a ghost.

“Your mom,” he plows on, hoping that it's not too late to undo his mistakes. “Always ordered spring rolls instead.”

“And?” Carl demands. “Why do I need to know that?”

Rick sighs but stands firm. “Because she was your mom, and you deserve to know who she was.”

Carl huffs, slanting his eyes to the side. “Why? It's not like knowing what sort of food she liked is gonna make her any less dead.”

Rick knows that this anger is his fault, so he bites back on his own emotions and deals with it. “No, it won't.” He agrees calmly. “But that's not the point.”

“Then what is? Why'd you have to bring her up?” He demands, a shadow away from screaming. “Besides,” he plows on before Rick's got a chance to explain himself, “I already _knew_ mom didn't like egg rolls. _You_ were the one who always forgot.”

Rick bites the inside of his cheek and admits to himself that maybe he hadn't thought this whole thing through. “You're right.” He says, because really, there's nothing else to say. “I always did forget. I...when your mom and I were young, when we first started dating, it was maybe the fourth or fifth time I took her out, and we went to this little Chinese place that...you know where Radio Shack was on Bleeker Street? Well, that's where it used to be.”

Carl's still not looking at him, but Rick can see that he's listening, and he'd nodded minutely in response to his father's question. That, at least, feels hopeful.

“And, and we took our food over to Miller's Park and ate everything out of the containers on a bench. Your mom could use chopsticks better than I ever could, but I'd been too embarrassed to ask for a fork, so I tried, and I was horrible,” he smiles a little, getting lost in the memory, “and she laughed at me. Hard.”

Carl huffs then, a little something that might just be reluctant laughter, and Rick knows then he's doing the right thing.

“And I fell in love with her a little bit right then. You do that over time, Carl, fall in love with people. It's never all at once, and it's never at first sight. It's something you build up to. I knew the first time I saw Lori that I might love her someday, but getting there always takes time. Sometimes it's stuff that stacks up slow, and other times it's fast, but you always gotta lay down a history before you can build a future. That's something you need to know, getting as old as you are.”

It's more life wisdom than he's offered to his son in nearly two years. Carl might be too comfortable raising himself already.

“But at the end of that night, after she taught me how to use chopsticks as best she could, I offered your mom the last egg roll we had. Told her it was a thanks for puttin' up with an inadequate dining companion. She told me years later that she took it because it was too important a moment between us to ruin with something as trivial as not liking a food much.” Rick takes a deep breath, and feels a little shaky, but in a good way. It's been a long time since he's thought about his and Lori's happier days.

“Is that...” Carl's picking at the knee of his jeans, “Is that why she never got mad at you for not remembering?”

Rick nods, knowing the boy can see him in his peripheral vision. “Yeah. That's exactly why.”

In the later days of their marriage, he and Lori had fought a lot. And even though Rick had always done his best to keep that away from their son, he knows Carl had been aware of it. Some of the things Lori would say in front of him...it still makes Rick angry to think about it, even if that anger is tainted now with guilt, too. But of all the stupid things she used to scream at him about – the laundry, mowing the lawn, parking too close to her in the garage – she'd never picked a fight about ordering the wrong side dish when they'd gotten Chinese food. Not even when things had been at their worst between them.

They'd both understood that certain pieces of their history were too precious to drag into the crumbling reality of their present.

“I...” Carl looks up at him finally, and his eyes are wet but he's not crying. In fact, he looks almost happy. “I'm glad you told me that.”

“I never meant to stop telling you stuff like that, Carl.” He says honestly. “I don't want to...to _not_ talk about your mom. I really don't want you to think that you can't.”

His son swallows thickly and nods. “But not, like...not all the time, right?” He asks, sounding hesitant.

Rick sighs. He should have known this wouldn't be easy. “Maybe not all the time.” He agrees. “But she was your mom, and she always will be your mom, and you're allowed to talk about her whenever you want, no matter what. Alright?”

Carl nods again and goes back to not looking at him. “Okay.” He says. And then again, more firmly. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Rick echoes, smiling because he's proud at finally having done something right for his son's emotional well-being. “How was school today?” He changes the subject after a few beats, not wanting to overwhelm Carl by trying to overcompensate for months of getting it wrong.

His son looks relieved at not having to be the one to move on to a different topic. “Sam Ellis got an iPhone for his birthday, because his parents are, like, super rich. But almost everyone has some kind of phone, even Sophia, and she's younger than me.”

Rick _had_ noticed that during their visit. He'd thought it an odd thing for her to have, at first, but the way Carol and Daryl both asked her multiple times if she had it with her made Rick think that it was more an issue of ensuring safety than it was innocent indulgence. He doesn't know the whole story about Sophia's father, but he's pretty sure the man had abused at least Carol, maybe their daughter, too, and if he's not dead or in jail, there might be a very real fear in that house that he'll come back someday and hurt them again.

Just thinking that makes Rick's protective side bristle. He calms it by remembering what Daryl had looked like holding a gun, and the way that target sheet had painted a tale of impossibly perfect precision. Daryl would never let anything happen to Sophia or her mother. Then again, some things are impossible to control. A whole different kind of protectiveness flares to life inside of him thinking about Daryl getting hurt in the process of saving someone else.

Rick hums in response to his son, putting his other thoughts on the back burner for now. “Do you think you're old enough for a cell phone?”

“Totally,” Carl says enthusiastically. “Besides, it's practical, too. Like, what if I need to call you at school or something? Or, what if I get lost walking home?”

“You take the bus, and it's lets you off three blocks from here,” Rick deadpans. “But nice try.”

“C'mon, dad,” Carl whines, but in the purely innocent way of a kid trying to get what they want. “Everyone else in my class has one.”

Rick doubts that, but he does consider his son's request. A cell phone might not be the worst investment, honestly. It would at least afford him the opportunity to keep in contact with his son while he's at work. And it _is_ a good idea, practically, in case of emergencies.

“Tell you what,” he says, “You bring home all A's and B's on your next report card, and I'll get you a phone for Christmas.”

“ _Yes_!” Carl fist-bumps the air in enthusiasm. “Thanks, dad.”

Rick laughs, joyful as seeing his son happy. “Remember, you've gotta get good grades.” He says, and Carl nods like that's the easy part. “Good. Now finish eating, and maybe we can watch an episode or two of that TV show you were telling me about. The one with the alien guy?”

“He's not just an alien, he's a Time Lord,” Carl corrects him, shoveling food into his mouth quickly, “And he's got this box that travels through space and time, and...”

Rick can't say he really listens to the ensuing speech, but he is unbelievably grateful that his son is happy. And it's more than just liking a show, or excitement over getting a cell phone; it's the relief that comes with knowing something bad is changing into something better.

Rick knows that he's got Daryl, in large part, to thank for that shift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! So, I know this chapter was short - both word count wise and on the budding Rickyl relationship front, but I needed a father/son bonding interlude. The next chapter, the next few actually, will drift back towards the love thang they've got a growin', so hang tight :) A million thanks for all your continual support!


	8. Hunting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I had a slight mishap the first time I tried to post this chapter. The mishap being that my computer, which was barely dangling by a thread of life, decided to take the final plunge into crapped-outs-ville. I got the giant red X warning box, the 'damaged beyond repair' notice, the truly terrifying electronic buzzing of a hard drive trying to seek out revenge. And somehow in my frantic scurrying trying to delay the inevitable, I deleted this chapter. Or my computer did it out of spite, I'm really not sure. But it took a while to get it back up because, well, I had to go buy a new laptop. Which, granted, I'm already in love with. It had been many, many years since I bought a new computer and I feel good about this one. Plus, Windows 10 is growing on me really fast. But anyway, enough about that: let's try this again. 
> 
> Chapter 8: Take Two (smack it!)

***

“A&A's.” Daryl makes no effort to hide his annoyance when he answers the phone.

It makes Rick smile, because this man is not a people person by any stretch of Dale's imagination. “Daryl, it's Rick,” he responds. “Grimes.”

“Know who ya are,” the other man huffs, though Rick thinks he sounds a little less putout now. “What's goin' on?”

“I...” he clears his throat. “I was calling to, to thank you. For what...when I was in there a few days ago. What you talked to me about, what you said. It helped. Hearing it helped. Things with Carl are...better.”

Daryl's quiet for a long minute, leaving Rick to go over the words he'd just said and cringe at them. He's usually much better at spontaneous conversation. Nothing about this call had been spontaneous, of course – spent nearly an hour working himself up to making it, in fact – he just hadn't thought through what he was actually going to say.

“Glad to hear it, Charger,” Daryl says finally.

“And I was wondering if you and Carol wouldn't mind having us over again next weekend.” He blurts, feeling heat creep up the back of his neck. Fuck if Daryl Dixon doesn't have him all twisted up. “I'd invite y'all over to our place, but it's small and you can't shoot anything there, and Carl's dying to do that again. I'll bring lunch this time, too.”

“Make it somethin' we 'an put on the grill.” Is how the mechanic responds, and Rick thinks he might just hear a smile on the other end of the phone. “And make sure your boy's got a decent pair of hiking boots.”

***  
***

Their second Saturday visit falls just shy of two weeks after their first, is what Carol tells him. And Daryl believes her because she ain't got no reason to lie and Daryl himself has always been shit at keeping track of time. People and places he's got a knack for, but time tends to get away from him – always has; even when he'd lived in places with circular climates.

Hot in the summer, snow in the winter, that type of thing: should've been easier for him to keep track of the months in Colorado or Pennsylvania, Idaho, Indiana, or any other goddamn place in the country he's pretended to call home. But even mother nature had never been enough to keep him from drifting.

Carol's turkey decorations and Sophia's book report on Pilgrims have him clued in to the fact that it's nearing Thanksgiving, at least, and he'll probably be expected to shoot a live turkey coming up here soon, but at least that he knows how to do. In fact, any holiday where his biggest contribution is going to be hunting something is an alright holiday in his books.

But that'll be sometime soon, not today. Today, Rick and his kid are going to be here, and Daryl probably won't kill anything at all. This visit doesn't have as much build up as the previous one had – first one's always the hardest – and Daryl finds himself looking forward to seeing the elder Grimes again. Not that he says that out loud to anybody – though, of course, Carol claims she can see it in him.

Sophia is more obvious about her enthusiasm, talking endlessly about Carl; the boy's thoughts on this and that, the neighbor he gets to spend time with who lets him play video games, how his apartment is on the fourth floor and has a balcony, and on and on and fucking on.

_“Bitch at me all day long about how she's been talking your ear off about that boy,”_ Carol had scoffed at one point, _“but I haven't heard you telling her to quit it.”_

_“Kid deserves to be happy,”_ Daryl had shrugged, and they'd both let it go. Because Carol had been trying to make a point, and the hunter had heard it plain as day: _you're never going to yell at her for being happy, so you might as well quit pretending you're not thrilled she's got something worth being happy about._

Kids make for an easy buffer when you want to spend time with someone, is what Daryl's taken away from this whole setup. His other friendships, weird as it still is that he's got a handful of those, had all developed through easy or necessary constant contact. Aaron and Dale at work, Maggie at the bar, Michonne at the gym, and Carol...well, Carol had been different. Thing is, so's Rick. If the kids weren't part of this equation, Daryl really doesn't know how he'd go about keeping the man in his life. Knows he would, though. Can feel that much in his bones.

Main difference between this Saturday and the last is that Daryl spends just shy of three hours in the woods with Rick, Sophia, and Carl teaching the kids – fucking hell, teaching all three of them, if Rick's rapt attention and that look he's got like he's learning something for the first time is anything to go by – how to hunt.

“Few rules around huntin',” he starts talking once they get a decent way into the woods, because this part's more important than his distaste of conversation in general. “First is, ya don't kill shit jus'ta kill it. You kill to eat. Never bring home more'an you need. Give these rabbits a fighting chance at repopulatin', hear?”

“Rabbits?” Carl asks, sounding disappointed. “I thought you hunted deer.”

Daryl shares a quiet look with Sophia, before turning to the detective's son. “ _I_ do,” he nods. “You...you're gonna be lucky to chip the bark off a tree with that BB gun, never mind takin' down a buck.”

“Then why can't I use a real gun?” He asks this question glancing between Daryl and his father both. Rick looks half-panicked, so Daryl meets his gaze and silently asks permission. Rick grants his approval with a barely perceptible nod.

“Second rule,” he states firmly, “is ya don't get a real gun 'til you can beat me at a game of poker.”

Rick's eyebrows shoot up; _you fucking shitting me?_ Daryl shrugs.

“Third,” he plows on, ignoring Carl's outraged protests and Sophia's giggles, “an' this one's important, so listen close,” he crouches down in front of both the kids then, meeting their gazes evenly. He puts on a stern face that makes even Carl shut up for a second. “You don't never, _ever_ point a gun at somethin' ya ain't plannin' on killin'. And when you shoot, you aim to kill. No pussy-footin' around, no makin' somethin' suffer 'cause you can't make up your damn mind about it. You aim, you shoot. You shoot to kill. Got it?”

“Yes,” Sophia nods easily, because she's heard this speech before. And she'll hear it again. In Daryl's experience, repetition is the only way to get a kid to remember something. Carl, on the other hand, is biting his lip like maybe it just occurred to him that he's actually out here with the goal of ending something's life.

“You never _have_ to pull that trigger, either,” Rick offers, talking to his son and Sophia equally, offering it up casually so as not to act like he's coddling Carl. “Right?” He looks as Daryl, because obviously he's the authority out here, and he has to be the one to confirm this.

“Fourth rule,” he stands up, brushing his hands over his knees, “'Less someone's starvin', there's never any shame in comin' home empty-handed.” He eyes the kids, “And ain't neither of you ever gotta worry 'bout goin' hungry.”  
They continue hiking after that, and the rest of Daryl's lessons are practical ones about tracking, vantage points, and getting close enough to make a shot. He lets Carl and Sophia go off ahead of them eventually, pointing out some tracks and challenging them to follow the trail on their own. He and Rick hang back.

“They gonna find anything?” The detective inquires, keeping an easy pace with Daryl despite the terrain. Man's not prone to complaining, the hunter's noticed, and that speaks volumes about his character.

Daryl glances at the ground and then back at the direction they're heading in. “Actually might,” he tells him. “This ain't the first time I've taken Sophia out here. She's gotta good eye for it. Never shot nothin', though.”

“Noticed you got her a gun like Carl's.” Rick mentions.

“She wanted one after last time.” Daryl admits. “Haven't got her'ta shoot it more'an once or twice. Seems keener on it when you lot're around. Wants to prove 'erself with your boy, I think.”

“Competitive by nature?” He asks with a grin that doesn't at all make Daryl's belly do a little flip. “Or is she just uppin' the stakes?”

He recognizes his own words, and shakes his head with a little smirk. “Don't get smart with me, Charger.”

They walk in companionable silence for a while longer, both of them keeping a steady eye on the kids.

“So, you play poker?” Rick asks, squinting at the ground some, maybe looking for the tracks.

It takes Daryl, who's a little caught up in thinking that his concentration is endearing, even if his gaze is five feet shy of their mark, to understand why he'd ask something so seemingly random. “I can hold my own with a deck'a cards.” He responds casually, then decides to add more. “First time my brother ever took me out like this,” he nods vaguely at the kids, “I was 'round their age. Poker thing's what he came up with, 'cause he didn't wanna gimme a decent gun.”

“How long were you stuck with a BB?” Rick asks, and he's smiling like Daryl's childhood had been something other than the cluster fuck it had been, and that makes the younger man almost want to lie to him, to make it easier. Ain't no depth in _easier_ , though. That's something Maggie had said to him once, and it'd stayed put in his mind.

“Didn't have a BB gun, Rick,” he says, careful to keep his voice neutral. “Got handed a six-shooter with a loaded barrel when I was eight years old. Wanted somethin' different 'cause the safety on that one got stuck more often than not.”

Rick stops walking suddenly, facing him with open astonishment in his eyes. Daryl stops, too, because staying in one group's only safe thing to do out here, – even if Daryl knows these woods like the back of his hand – and looks steadily at the detective. “What? Ya know where I'm from, Rick.”

“You think something like that's normal?” He asks baldly. “I'd arrest a man who gives a malfunctioning handgun to a fucking _eight_ year old.”

“Then you'd've made a better cop than the ones we had 'round those parts.” He snorts thinking about Abraham Ford. “C'mon,” he nudges the man's shoulder, appreciating the contact, even given the context. “Gotta keep up with those brats or we might spend the rest of the day trackin' _them_.”

Rick pulls out of his shock long enough to follow Daryl's order, and they make up the distance they'd lost in no time. As they walk, Rick's eyes stay narrow and unfocused, like he's thinking about something real hard, and Daryl just knows he wants to ask more questions about Daryl's life.

“What about you, Charger?” He changes course deliberately.

“Me?” Rick repeats, taken aback. “I didn't fire a gun for the first time 'til I was seventeen.”

Daryl grunts. “Nah, I meant how're you at poker?”

“Oh,” he visibly realigns his thoughts. “Not bad. Haven't played in years.”

“Gotta game tha' meets up every few weeks.” Daryl tells him, finding that the words come almost naturally, and that he doesn't regret them at all once they're on the table. “Tryin'ta find'a a new sixth for Texas Hold 'Em. Say the word, an' I'll put your name in.”

“I can't...” Rick's looking at him again with that goofy little grin of his. “I just can't picture you sitting still long enough to play cards.”

That's not what he'd been expecting to hear at all, and his responding laugh is so loud that Carl and Sophia both stop and turn around to face them. He waves at them to get back to tracking, though truth is he'd probably just scared off anything they might have been getting a trail on. Worth their annoyance, to see that look on Rick's face. Happy, is what it is. With no trace of those demons of his scratching below the surface, man looks years younger.

“Y'think ya know me so well, don't'chya, Detective fuckin' Smart Ass?” He's doing nothing to hide his amusement from the other man.

“Oh, now see, I don't presume to know anything about a person 'til I see their poker face.” And he says it all fake-serious like, knitting his eyebrows together in exaggerated concern. It makes Daryl chuckle – quieter this time, so the kids can have a fighting chance at hunting. He can't remember the last time he'd laughed this much in such a short stretch of time.

In the end, their excursion into the woods is a failure in that Carl and Sophia come back empty-handed and disappointed about it, but a success for the adults, who finally have plans to spend time together without their pint-sized shadows.

***

The gym that Michonne works at isn't the type with treadmills and massage tables. It isn't the sort of place you go for an hour after work because you're getting soft around the edges from sitting at a desk all day drinking too many sugar-latte-chino-frap-things from Starbucks. And it definitely isn't the kind of spot you wander into by accident.

Michonne's gym is a place for fighters. People with fire under their skin who are desperate to get it out, who _need_ a safe place to hit and get hit so they don't go out into the world and fuck it up even more.

Daryl had been nine months into working for Dale when the panic at being penned up in one place had hit him hard. Like all those times when he'd been a kid, desperate to escape but with no way to do it, Daryl had started pounding on the walls of his life.

It'd been different, of course, because there wasn't anything solid keeping him still like there had been in his youth. Nothing stopping him, not _really_ , from jumping on his bike and not looking back. He'd been too good at it by then – picking up and leaving. So many years of his life he'd spent on the road, with Merle and without him, taking off at every wrong turn, only staying put when he absolutely had to. And then later, staying still for a few years in between because he'd wanted to. But even that he'd known wouldn't be permanent. Nothing in his life ever was.

Except, he'd come back to Georgia – for his brother, some, but also because he always seems to wind up back here. He'd bought land. He was building a house. He'd gotten to know Dale, and Aaron and Eric, and maybe had just started seeing the lot of them as friends.

The first people in his collection of them, though he'd have never guessed then how many he would add to it in the coming years.

Those things, wanting stability and needing to get away from it, warred like demons and angels inside of him. That's what had made him go and get that tattoo on his back – that, and a fuck ton of alcohol, anyway. He'd let the fight wage on until one day, when a thing too many had rubbed him the wrong way and the tension had gotten to be too much, he'd snapped.

He'd charged at Aaron, seeing literal red around the edges of his vision, and only Dale's soothing voice in his ear and strong arms around his torso had kept him from obliterating the man.

_“This ain't my life, mother fuckers,”_ he remembers spitting at them, and had run from the shop without a backwards glance.

He'd had every intention of taking off after that, too. Didn't think he could've gone back, even if he'd wanted to; not after what he'd done. _“Feral,”_ the locals used to whisper about him and his brother, his daddy and the whole Dixon clan. _“Stay away from them bastards. They're feral.”_

He hates being associated with his family like that, like he's one of them; but he is. And he'd proved it in spades that day.

He'd been packing his bags and everything, ready to leave and never look back, when Eric had shown up at his front door, one day after he'd attacked Aaron. Thinking back on it, the whole exchange had been ridiculous. Daryl in a ratty t-shirt and jeans, holding a bottle of beer, and having not taken a shower going on three days at that point; Eric, with his combed hair and choral gray suit, a paisley tie and a leather briefcase. Daryl had opened the door – half expecting to see the cops, because why wouldn't Aaron have pressed charges – and had barely a second to register _Eric_ before the other man's fist had caught him hard across the jaw.

The force of the punch made him stumble back a step or two, and added to his level of inebriation at the time, it'd also left him feeling more than a little dizzy. He'd brushed the spot with his knuckles and taken a hard look at the man in his doorway once he'd gotten his bearings back. Simultaneously pissed and terrified is how he'd looked.

_“Aaron's not angry about what happened, and he won't let me do anything about it.”_ He'd said, holding his ground firmly. _“He thinks you should get a free pass because you had some kind of shitty childhood, but, but that's bullshit, because Aaron's past is just as fucked up as yours, and he doesn't go around attacking people because he has a bad day._

_“You wanna keep living your life this way, be my fucking guest – just get away from us to do it. You wanna stick around, maybe wind up being something better than all that shit you claim to wanna get away from, then fucking do something about it. See a shrink, find a punching bag, take up yoga. I don't fucking care what, but if you're gonna be a part of our lives, and Aaron does want that...fuck, Daryl, if you're gonna be a part of anybody's life, ever, you're gonna have to find a way to calm the fuck down._

_“I know you can, mostly because I just punched you and you haven't done anything about it. Which means you know I'm right, too. And I'm pretty sure you know you were majorly out of line. Now's as good a time as any to stop running away from the past.”_

It hadn't been without a struggle that Daryl had taken Eric's word to heart that day, but he'd managed to wrap his head around what the other man had said to him just long enough to take the biggest gamble of his life and stay put somewhere after he'd fucked up.

He'd hunted for a place he could go in order to do what Eric had told him he needed so badly to do – calm the fuck down. He'd found Michonne's gym through trial and error, and though Michonne herself isn't what he ever would have pictured for something like that, she'd wound up being everything he'd needed.

He makes it a point to train with her at least twice a week, sometimes more. She won't let him wear himself out, though, and because his job is physically taxing, she always caps it at four. She likes to make noise about how he could make his living fighting, if he really wanted to – MMA, or even boxing – but its bullshit. He ain't a pro, not even close, but he can damn well hold his own. _“Yeah, I could go'an be a sniper, too.”_ He always responds. _“Don't see me rushin' to do that, neither.”_

_“You're gentler than you think you are, Dare,”_ she likes to tell him that, too. _“Gotta good heart.”_

But he doesn't spend time with her to hear about how he's gotta a kind soul, or any of that other bullshit. He spends time with her because she's strong, probably the strongest person he's ever met, and that means he doesn't have to pull his punches with her – figuratively or literally. And he _needs_ that; needs a place to go where he can hit and get hit without worrying about fucking up the rest of the world.

Their friendship, his and Michonne's, had developed like all his others had – mostly by accident. They'd had something in common (mostly a deep desire to not talk about their feelings and have fun in the process), and they'd taken the risk of letting that grow into whatever it felt like becoming. Innocent yet intense companionship, as it had turned out.

He couldn't have anticipated how dedicated Michonne would become to helping Carol and Sophia start their lives fresh, out from under the shadow of Ed, but he's most grateful these days for that. He might have been drowning when he'd met Michonne, but Carol had been _dying_. Michonne had helped bring out the warrior in her.

“Found a new guy for our game,” he tells her a few days after he'd made the offer to Rick, unwrapping the tape around his wrist and flexing his fingers carefully.

“That cop I met at Dale's a few weeks back?” She guesses, and Daryl shouldn't be surprised – she's always more aware of shit like that then she lets on.

“He's gotta kid 'round Sophie's age,” Daryl says, like that explains the extent of his relationship with the man. “They've been hittin' it off.”

“Good thing for that girl to be making friends,” she says easily, but doesn't stop looking at him. “What about you?”

“I got enough people in my life as it is.” He grunts.

She knows he doesn't mean that the way it sounds, and doesn't put up with hearing it, either. “You bringing him around for poker night means you either want his friendship or you want him in your bed. Which is it?”

“God, what is it with you women?” He growls, “Man's not bent that way, a'right? Even if he were, he's fresh on the heels'a losin' his wife, raisin' that boy alone...ain't got room for whatever complicated mess bein' with someone like me'd bring down on'em.”

“So you're not interested in him?” She asks, sounding dangerously casual.

“No.” He pushes the word out with as much force as he can muster.

“You sure?”

“You get hit in the head or somethin'?” He demands. “Fucking well said no, didn't I?”

“Hmm,” she nods, and then narrows her eyes a fraction. “Then how come you haven't picked up a single piece of ass in the last month?”

Daryl suddenly finds the chipped tile floor worthy of intent study. “Shut the fuck up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I looked into it: There are a few models of BB guns powerful enough to humanely kill rabbits. I'm going with Sophie has one of those because Daryl knows his shit, and Carl has one because luck, most likely. 
> 
> Thanks for putting up with my posting glitches, everyone! Be sure to drop me a line, too, lemme know what you thought :)


	9. Deal the Cards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took me a little while to get this one out, but it’s my favorite chapter so far, and I think the longest one I’ve had yet. Hope you enjoy!!

***

Rick hasn't woken up with morning wood since his wife had died.

Fuck, Rick's barely paid his dick two neverminds since over a year _before_ his wife had died, and he honestly can't recall the last time he's had anything more than a halfhearted erection. He sure as hell can't remember when the last time he wanted to touch himself _that way_ was; the last time arousal had gotten under his skin so deep that nothing but touch would quell it.

Truth be told, right below the surface of not thinking about it at all, Rick had been dead afraid that losing Lori had killed any sex drive he might have had left.

That was before the Charger had broken down. Before he'd met Daryl Dixon. Before everything had started to change.

These feelings he's been having for Daryl; he'd been able to trick himself for a while into thinking they were something different from what they are. He'd known, of course, but there's _knowing_ and then there's _admitting_ – and he's become somewhat of an expert at drawing that line. But now... Waking up hard with his hand already on his dick, turned on his side and rutting into the mattress like a horny fucking teenager; that doesn't leave any room for gaps in his knowledge. Especially not when the only thing he can think about in those vulnerable moments leading up his release is Daryl.

Daryl's shaggy hair and impossibly strong arms, all that concentration he puts into aiming a gun that Rick would fucking _love_ to see directed somewhere else; at him. The way he'd said, _“Don't get smart with me, Charger,”_ with an undercurrent of authority that had beguiled the untended lover inside of him.

He tightens the grip he's got on his dick and strokes faster.

Fuck, the way Daryl bites his lower lip when he's thinking about something. The expanse of his upper body covered in sweat, those shoulders rolling back in pleasure; hard plains, sharp edges, gruff demands, what those cobalt eyes might look like wide with desire and–

“Fuck,” he grunts, and with a final twist to the head of cock, he comes hard, rolling over onto his back and collapsing in a heap, breathing labored.

“Fuck,” he breathes again after he's got his bearings back, and this time it's with resignation.

Alright, so he's got a crush on Daryl Dixon. That's alright.

No, really. It's fine. Because, see, his feelings, this want he's just admitted to himself (forced as he was by telling dreams and ensuing dirty sheets) – it's never, ever gonna happen. Daryl Dixon is fucking _taken_. He's a country boy with a big heart and a small family (even if he doesn't want to admit to that), and Rick's...well, Rick's a broken deputy-sheriff turned wannabe-big-shot-city-detective who's got too many demons that need sorting out to even _think_ about...

So it doesn't matter that he's never going to be anything more to Daryl than a friend. He needs those, anyway, and that's not even the important part. The _important_ part is that he's _got a crush on somebody._ It's a relief to know that he's still capable of that. He might never be able to love another woman, but God had gifted Rick Grimes with a more expansive pool of potential life partners, and now that he's out of the rural depths of Southern bigotry, he's thinking he might do well to take advantage of that.

With a spring in his step like a man renewed, Rick gets out of bed to begin his day. Even if the first thing he has to do is wash his sheets.

***

Because Daryl works odd hours at the shop, and Rick's still stuck on new-guy-shit-shifts at the precinct, they've spent a lot of their time texting.

Since they'd first met, Rick's heard Daryl proclaim himself to be 'not the talkin' sort' a myriad of times, always with the same inflexibility of someone who's repeating life-long truths. Thing is, change is a beast that creeps in with the shadows, and Rick's pretty sure that this particular truth is one that had dissolved long before Rick had entered the picture. Daryl might not be overly chatty, and it wouldn't be inaccurate to call him the quiet type, but he's also damn well able to hold his own verbally when the situation calls for it – or, as it turns out, when he feels like it.

Since they'd finally exchanged phone numbers after that second Saturday they’d spent together with the kids, Rick and Daryl have taken to talking constantly – if one can accurately describe texting as a form of talking.

Whatever umbrella of communication it falls under, texting is what's been building the foundation of their growing friendship.

It had started a few days after Thanksgiving; Daryl checking with him about the date and time of the poker game. Rick had still been melancholy over the holiday – Carl had wanted to stay in the city, and he and Rick had wound up watching holiday movies and eating Boston Market take-out. It actually hadn't been as bad as he'd been expecting the first holiday without his wife to be, but Carl hadn't said much and Rick himself had just been reminded of all that they'd lost.

So when Daryl had first contacted him after Thanksgiving was over and the whole world was preparing instead for Christmas, Rick had been beyond glad to hear from him. Anything to help him forget.

Rick had responded almost formally to that first text, the unavoidable awkwardness of not-talking-but-it's-still-communicating with someone in a new way for the first time. Then, for no reason at all that very same day, Rick had shared with the other man a joke that Morgan had told him.

Daryl's response had been witty enough to make him laugh out loud – and make Morgan do the same, when he'd passed it along to his partner. A few hours later, Daryl had texted him something about a customer they'd had at the shop and a stupid thing he'd wanted having to do with a battery. Rick hadn't understood the mechanics of it, honestly, but Daryl's dry sarcasm had read plain as day.

It had spiraled from there.

Funny thing is, people have been preaching to him about the wonders of text messaging for years now, but Rick had never seen it as anything more than convenience when there really wasn't time for anything else, and laziness when there was. Now, though...now he's beginning to see the beauty in it. Talking like this feels safer than talking out loud does, and while it's certainly not as intimate as face-to-face, it does open up a whole other window. Daryl's _not_ the talking sort, not unless the situation is just right; and, through key clicks, the situation is controlled completely by the person holding the phone.

Which is why, when the second Friday in December rolls around, Rick feels more confident about being included in this poker game than he had initially. It doesn't hurt that, because of a last minute lead on Marcus Mandella's whereabouts, he hadn't gotten a chance to stop at home before driving to the bar Daryl had told him to go to. He'd have liked to change out of his work clothes, no doubt, but not having those extra three hours to stress about the upcoming events had done wonders for his confidence walking into it.

The place Daryl instructs him to show up that evening isn't, by any stretch, what Rick had envisioned when Daryl had said, _“There's this bar jus' outside the city that a friend'a mine runs. S'where we get together for cards.”_

Maybe his knowledge of where Daryl had grown up is clouding his opinions more than he'd like to believe, but Rick had been picturing a down-and-dirty, low-life-seedy, bottom of the barrel type of joint; with rough looking men, a line of choppers at the front door, and a whole lot of leather. And while there are a few motorcycles in the parking lot, by and large Greene Light Tavern is an establishment that feels almost...homey.

The lighting is dim, but definitely not that dark-enough-to-hide-shady-business-going-on-in-the-corners worrisome. There's a bar immediately to his right when he walks in, with the expected shelves of liquor behind it, but also several booths with dangling light fixtures directly in front of him. There's a platform area that sits about two steps up from the first level and spans over half the space of the bar, also. Up there, there are even more booths, a few intimate tables for two, and a larger area off to the side that might house a DJ's setup some nights, but tonight is without doubt occupying a large poker table.

“Hey, you must be Rick Grimes,” a friendly voice draws him away from his inspection of the place, and he turns to find a pretty brunette standing behind the bar. She's got short hair, soft features, and a smile that seems to reach her eyes and then some. “I'm Maggie,” she gives a little wave. “When Daryl told me he was invitin' a cop tonight, I thought he was just messin' with us.”

Rick steps closer to where she is and leans against the counter. “I just have to ask this,” he looks at her seriously, almost smiling when her eyes narrow, “is there something about me, like just by looking at me, that screams _cop_?” He breaks into a grin when she laughs. “Because I get pegged for it more often than anybody else I know.”

“It's all in the walk, Detective Grimes,” this response comes from behind him, and he turns to face another woman. This one's tiny, is his first thought. Lean and probably not a hair over 5'2, but also strong looking – like a compact weapon. Not soft like Maggie. With her long hair tied up in a bouncy ponytail, Rick can see the sharp angles of her face, and they look familiar. “You guys swagger.”

“Do I know you?” He can't help asking, because seriously, it's one of those things, _right there_ on the edge of his brain from the moment he sees her.

“Don't think so,” she shrugs. “Rosita.” She offers him a hand, which he takes immediately and shakes firmly. Instinct tells him he can't get caught holding back with her.

“Rick.” He offers.

“Why don't I fix you a drink, Rick.” Maggie gestures for him to sit down, and he does just that, not sure what to make of it when Rosita sits down right next to him. _Wedding ring_ , he notes out of habit – then again, that doesn't always mean much. “Michonne's not here yet, and Daryl and Eric are...” she trails off and shrugs, “off somewhere, doin' something'.”

“Thanks,” he nods. “I'll just take a beer. Whatever's on tap's fine.”

“You got it.” She looks at Rosita. “Margarita?”

“Hell yeah,” the smaller woman laughs, “You know I play better when I'm not sober.”

There are a few more customers at the other end of the bar, plus every table and booth in the place is about taken, but there are other bartenders and waiters seeing to them. Maggie, as far as Rick can tell, isn't officially on the clock, judging by how she doesn't pay attention to anyone save Rick and Rosita. Maybe she just doesn't feel right being here without at least _standing_ on that side of the counter.

Rick takes a long swallow off his drink once it's in front of him. He wishes Daryl were sitting next to him instead of Rosita. He wonders who Eric is. “So,” he says once Maggie comes back over with Rosita's margarita and small tumbler of what looks like vodka for herself. “How long have y'all known each other?”

“Oh, years,” Maggie says, leaning against the bar casually. “My little sister works for Dale during the summers, and she started draggin' Daryl 'round here once they got close. Funny thing is, Daryl actually knew my dad, from way back. Daddy always says that was life comin' full circle.”

Rosita adds, “Michonne and Eric, and Aaron – they started coming here 'cause of Daryl, too.” She laughs. “I've heard that man go on like a broken record about how people in his life keep stacking up, like he can't get rid of them. But, truth be told, he's the one who collects them.”

“Aaron gonna be here tonight?” Rick asks, and then adds, “met him and Dale at A&A's.”

“Nah, Aaron's not much for poker.” Maggie says. “Come by here on karaoke night, though, and you'll get a show.”

Rosita laughs loudly, already halfway through her drink and flushed from it. “What about you, Rick? I assume you've got that Charger that Daryl keeps waxing poetic about?”

Rick's surprised, both by Daryl's apparent love of his car and the fact that he seems to have mentioned him to his friends. “Yup,” he nods. “'76 I've had just about my whole life. Well, it was my dad's first, but he could never really get her to run. Don't know anything about cars, myself. Don't tell Daryl, but I think the reason the engine blew in the first place is 'cause I'd been neglecting her.”

“Eh, he probably already figured that out,” Maggie scoffs. “If it's got an engine, Daryl Dixon can tell you it's life story, I know that much. Beth told me once that manufactures and dealerships are always coming around offering him jobs.”

“Speaking of jobs,” Rosita segues the conversation before Rick can find a way to casually ask if Daryl's ever thought about taking anyone up on those offers. “Sold that piece I've been working on to the New York Times. Gonna publish it month after next.”

“Hey, congratulations,” Maggie says genuinely, and Rick lets them get their happiness out in the open before he interrupts.

“You're a writer?” He asks.

“Freelance journalism.” She nods, and runs a finger around the rim of her glass. Maggie takes a moment to duck away and refill it for her. “Investigative, mostly. And I teach part-time. Do some other stuff here and there.”

 _“Spent a long time wandering around. Got to the other side'a the damn country, even, but I always wound up back here._ Daryl had told him that once, and Rick wonders if he'd met her then, in some place other than Georgia. Probably not, because that wouldn't explain why she's here now, or why she looks so impossibly familiar to him. He hasn't been in the city long enough to have forgotten any arrests, and she definitely isn't a witness or a victim. He pushes it out of his mind, even though he knows it's going to keep gnawing at him until he figures it out.

“Sounds exciting,” he offers, and he even means it. He personally can't imagine doing something like that – chasing stories, traveling more than likely quite a bit – especially with someone to come home to at night. But some people are like that. Nomadic by nature. “Here's to your success.” He tips his glass to her, and she clinks hers against it with a grin.

“Hey, what're we celebrating?” A man comes up behind them then and slings an arm over Rosita's shoulder. And while she rolls her eyes at it, she makes no effort to shrug it off.

“The last remaining shred of your sobriety by the smell of it,” she sniffs somewhere near his rib cage, since that's about where her head falls with him standing behind her, and makes a face. “Seriously, did you bathe in whiskey?”

“I stumbled.” He says with a stern face, and then all at once focuses his attention on Rick. “And you must be the guy with the Charger.”

Well, at least he hadn't said anything about him being a cop.

“Don't feel bad, man,” this new person says, misinterpreting his look. “Daryl identifies everyone by what they drive. Still calls me Hybrid.”

That makes the detective laugh. “I'm Rick.” He offers his hand.

“Eric,” the other man takes it. Firm hold, no calluses. White collar job, he'd guess based on that smooth skin and his clothes. Used to looking nice for people. Used to looking nice for _Daryl_? Only no, that's not right; because Daryl has Carol. Their names even rhyme.

Damn. When's the last time he had a drink, if one beer is making him this spacey? The answer comes unbidden – the night Shane had died.

Well, that does explain a lot then, doesn't it?

Against his better judgment, he nods when Maggie asks him if he wants a refill.

“Fair warning,” Eric says, still draped over Rosita, seemingly unconcerned about moving. Rick can't tell if he's really drunk or just playing it up to amuse the others. “Michonne and Daryl are in the parking lot arguing about that bike again.”

“Oh good lord,” Maggie sighs heavily. “Detective, I'm gonna have to ask you to go detain those two. It's a matter of civil unrest.”

Rick laughs, and is a little relieved when she does, too. “Ain't no harm in some friendly bickering,” he declares in his best deputy voice.

Eric snorts, “One day those two are gonna come to blows over that bike,” he says with resignation, “And I don't even know who I'd put money on in a fight.”

Rick remembers meeting Michonne Carmichael the afternoon at A&A's that had, in more ways than one, changed the course of Rick's life. She'd struck him then as unusually reserved, and incredibly tough. Her body had spoken to physical strength, while her demeanor had screamed of emotional endurance. She'd reminded him a lot of Daryl, actually, and had it not been for the obvious differences in their ethnic backgrounds, he might have thought them related.

“Michonne,” Maggie says like she's answering a question, and it takes Rick a second to catch up enough to realize that she it, albeit a hypothetical one. “No holds bar free for all? My money's on the lady with the katana.”

And of course she has a sword.

“I dunno,” Rosita sounds contemplative, “I think Daryl wins most fights out of pure stubbornness.”

Eric shakes his head, “I've seen Michonne do parkour. Always bet on the ninja.”

They all chuckle a little, and Rick makes a mental note to Google _parkour_ when he gets home.

“What about you, Rick?” Maggie asks, tilting her head innocently. “They make it to Thunderdome, who's walking out of that ring?”

Rick shakes his head slowly. “Don't feel informed enough to make that wager,” he says, wondering if they'll let him stay neutral on this. “I've only met Miss Carmichael once, and can't attest to how she'd fair in a brawl.”

“Spoken like a true hostile witness,” Eric remarks, and Rick wonders if the comment is just him being glib, or if it's a tip off to his profession.

“I think he'd bet on Daryl, push came to shove,” Rosita says in that tone of voice people get when they're too drunk to lie, but still sober enough to be aware of what their words are doing. “Am I right, Detective?”

“Well, I have seen the man shoot a gun,” he lets himself think about it, and is maybe too tipsy for that to be a good idea, because he immediately feels his cheeks flush. ,i>Plus there was that one time he almost tried to kill me and I kinda thought I'd have to arrest him and my god haven't we come a long way since then? “And I like bettin' on the wildcard.”

That's something Shane had always said, _“I'm bettin' on the wildcard tonight, brother.”_ Rick's not sure he'd really known what it meant, in regards to poker playing, because he'd always used it more like _I'm taking a gamble_. Rick's not sure which way he means it tonight.

“You jus' call me a _wildcard,_ Ace?”

Rick would know that voice anywhere by now. He turns towards it.

Their eyes meet, and even though the distance between the front door and where Rick's sitting is a dozen feet or more, they might as well have been right next to each other, shoulder to shoulder like they were out in the woods. The rest of the room and all the people in it fade to almost nothing, and Rick won't even think to consider that description overly cliché until hours later.

A wildcard can be anything you need it to be, and directly increases your likelihood of walking away with more than you started with. Rick smiles at him, and it doesn't feel as nearly like teasing as he's pretty sure he'd meant it to. “So what if I did?”

***  
***

They're five hands, two hours, and about a hundred dollars into the night when Daryl decides that getting Rick drunk was the _best fucking idea ever_.

 _Reserved_ is not a word people attribute to people like the Dixons; always a hair's breath away from losing their shit, walking that razor's edge between civility and feral. Daryl's done his part to step back from his life's legacy, and he's done a decent job of it, frankly better than he'd have ever imagined he could, once upon a time. But he's never going to be anything close to _reserved_.

Rick Grimes, on the other hand, is a man with a different sort of burden. Maybe it was all that growing up he'd done in the suburbs, maybe it's got more to do with his dead wife and his dead Shane and that boy of his; whatever the cause of it, Rick's got _reserved_ all but carved out across his forehead. Scared, you might be able to call it without being all the way wrong; because too many missteps make a man weary of moving at all.

But, like in most things, alcohol is a great equalizer. And Rick Grimes drunk is without doubt a man very much _unreserved_.

And Daryl fucking loves it.

“So, there we were, three hours away from fucking anything,” Rick's saying now, finishing up a story he's been telling for the better part of this hand. “And my partner's still buck naked save the prostitute's skirt, which he's got coverin' up his junk, but it's still his bare ass in that car – never did clean that, come to think of it.”

“Eww,” Maggie interjects dramatically, and the others laugh. Eric folds, and Rosita raises. Daryl nudges Rick to remind him that he has to make a move. Man hands up two cards and triples the stakes. Hell if he's got any idea what he's doing, probably, and Daryl's glad then that they never play for big money.

“Exactly,” Rick points at her like that's the best damn point he's ever heard, then keeps talking, “So we're headin' back home with nothin' to show for any'a that, when, of fucking course, we get a flat tire.”

“You ain't got luck for shit when it comes to automobiles, do ya, Charger?” Daryl teases.

The flush that Rick's got built up from the alcohol seems to deepen. “Shuddup.”

“A sub-par rebuttal at best,” Eric interjects, sounding like a damn referee. He even adds, “I'm gonna have to deduct points there.”

“So y'all get a flat,” Michonne's smiling, though it's hard to make out because she does her best to conceal it.

“We get a flat,” Rick says right at her, waving his hand around in circles. “So I get us off to the side and go to get the spare – 'bout the only thing I ever knew how'ta do to a car's change a flat, so I'm feelin' pretty confident 'bout that, at least. Thing is, when I open up the trunk,” he pauses to take a drink of his sixth, maybe seventh, beer, and uses that moment to look at all of them.

When his gaze lands on Daryl, the younger man cocks an eyebrow.

Rick grins, “When I open up the trunk, that goddamn train-hoppin', paint-sniffin', prostitute-buyin' fucking _kid_ jumps out at me, outta the _goddamn trunk_ , like Frogger on fuckin' crystal, and catches me upside the head with a crowbar. _My_ crowbar.”

Eric's laughing so hard he's in tears, and even Michonne's smiling full out now, holding nothing back. Maggie about snorts her drink out of her nose, and Rosita's got her glass up in front of her like she's trying not to choke. Daryl joins them, laughing hard and without reserve. A night like the one Rick's recounting certainly deserves it.

The detective's eyes catch his and light up something fierce. Daryl thinks he might read pride there, but doesn't stop to think about why.

“And my partner jumps outta the car, naked as the day he was born, and tries to chase the mother fucker down,” Rick shakes his head, remembering. “Got two shots off, even, but tweaked up Frogger's a hard target to hit. We had'ta go back to the station, him naked, me with a concussion, and explain to the sheriff _how_ , exactly, a drunk and disorderly call turned into a damn road trip, and why the whole backseat'a the cruiser was burnt to a crisp.” He takes a few deep breaths, chuckling himself a little at the memory, and then all of a sudden looks down at the cards in his hands, like he'd forgotten about them up until then. “Oh, also, flush.”

He puts them down and Rosita groans loudly, muttering something like, “goddamn drunk ass mother fucker stole my luck.” Maggie and Michonne set their losing hands down much more gracefully. It seems to take Rick a moment to catch up on the fact that he's about to win yet another hand, and when he realizes it he breaks out into a wide grin.

“You gonna lay'em down, Wildcard?” Rick puts his hand, palm open, on Daryl's shoulder. The hunter doesn't flinch at the contact, which is a new thing for him. Not that he hasn't gotten used to physical touch over the past few years – hard not to, with a clingy ten-year-old in his life – but Rick's not someone he's used to, not yet. Only thing is, his body doesn't seem to know that the way his mind's telling him it ought to, because that touch doesn't make him feel a damn thing other than warm and included.

He licks his lips and looks at his hand. What he does next isn't even hard. “Nah, Ace, ya got me.” He puts his hand face down in front of him. “Jackpot's all yours.”

“Startin' to think we're not all playing the same game here,” Michonne raises her eyebrows at him when she says it, and Daryl reads her implication like a challenge.

“What's Mike been up to these days?” He asks, not at all innocently, and her superior little smirk falls away in favor of a hefty glare.

“Oh, yeah,” Maggie latches onto the name like Daryl had been counting on at least one of them doing. “How's Mr. On-Again-Off-Again? You guys talked since what happened on Thanksgiving?”

“Wait, what happened?” Eric demands. “We were in Vermont.”

Michonne looks like she wants to kill them all, but that does nothing to stop Maggie and Rosita from telling the story to Eric. Daryl, who'd been there the first time around and doesn't really feel like hearing it rehashed in dramatic form, shuffles the cards back into a neat stack and then offers to go down and get them all more drinks.

He's only a little surprised when Rick volunteers to help him.

The bar is still crowded, and Rick and Daryl squeeze in at the end, telling one of the bartenders – Johnny, maybe – that they need another round for the poker game. They wait side-by-side for the drinks to come up.

“Coulda handled this all on my own, Ace,” Daryl says, but doesn't mean it like a rebuff.

Rick smiles a little, eyes glazed with drunk but intense. “Felt like helpin'.”

“Didja, now?” He asks, though without really needing an answer. He leans against the bar.

Rick hums, takes a step closer into Daryl's personal space, and slowly, almost tentatively, rests a hand on the curve of his hip.

Oh, this could be so many things, Daryl thinks as he swallows back a low groan. This could be so, _so_ many things on the detective's end, and not all of them lead back somewhere good.

Still. Daryl's never been the type to back away from a chance at something. Especially not when it's set right out in front of him like this. “You like touchin' me, Charger?” He says it low, like anybody around them would give two licks even if they could hear them, anyway. Then again, quiet's just another word for intimate.

Rick's fingers flex over his hipbone, and he licks his lips just a fraction, before pulling the bottom one between his teeth. He nods, and looks at him with hooded eyes.

God, those are goddamn bedroom eyes. Sex eyes. _Fuck me_ eyes.

Daryl takes a few deep breaths, and wills his dick to stand down. Because, they're also drunk eyes. Sad eyes. _Looking for something because I just lost everything and then I found you_ eyes.

Turns out Daryl hadn't been one hundred percent correct in assuming Rick's marriage and his orientation went hand-in-hand. He knows it's not always as easy or simple as it looks on the outside, and maybe a part of him had been hoping the detective would prove himself the complicated sort, but he hadn't really _expected_ it. Hope's not a thing that grows natural for him.

Hard to ignore the facts, though, once they're lying on your hip, or staring right at you with half-closed eyes and desire you know you could take as far as you wanted it; because nowhere on him can Daryl read shock. So this isn't a new thing, his wanting a man like this, but that might be the only thing here that's not bound to throw him for a loop once the alcohol fades from his system.

The mechanic musters up every ounce of self-control he's got in stock from years of learning how to be different, and takes a deep breath. He reaches out and grips the back of Rick's neck, his other arm still resting casual-like on the bar. Different circumstances might have had him pulling their foreheads together, but Daryl sates himself with the touch, with the bob of Rick's adam's apple as he gulps, the intensity of his stare.

“You ain't the only one,” he says, flexing his own grip, showing as much as telling that he craves something physical here. “But this ain't somethin' you wanna do whiskey-stupid.”

Rick blinks a few times, real slow, and clears his throat. “I've been drinking beer, Daryl.”

The way he says it, like Daryl's the one not quite caught up on what's going on, makes the younger man huff a laugh. He squeezes the back of the detective's neck tight, and then let’s go. “Never cash out your hand 'fore you're done playin', Ace.”

The other man lets his hand drop from Daryl's waist, and while he misses the warmth of it there – the implication and the thought of _someday, maybe_ it had brought – he relishes the slide of the appendage on its way down, the soft drag that almost reaches his thigh.

“Are you talkin' in riddles 'cause you think I'm drunk?” He asks then, and it sounds almost petulant.

Daryl smirks. “You just order yourself another beer?” He gestures to the tray that Johnny-the-bartender's been filling up little by little during the course of their exchange.

He frowns. “Yes?”

“Then let's get back to the table,” he nods like that's everything there is to say on the matter.

He thinks Rick's confused frown is fucking adorable, but damned if he's ever going to tell anybody else that.

***  
***

Rick's twenty miles past drunk when the poker game finally breaks up at the end of the night. Fuck, he's so trashed he can't even stand up straight, and leaning against the wall's about as helpful as gripping a fence post during a tornado.

He goes to take a step and the world tilts dramatically under him. Sure of his sudden decent onto the ground he braces for impact, jolting heavily when a firm weight catches his shoulder instead.

“Easy, brother, I gotchya,” says a rough southern drawl, serious even when it's trying not to be.

“Shane?” He asks, a different part of his brain catching up slower, telling him he's ten different kinds of wrong wrong wrong.

“Naw, man,” Daryl grunts. “You're gettin' mixed up.”

“Not mixed, _messed_ ,” he says, trying to make Daryl understand the importance of this clarification. “Shane alwa's said brother, called me tha' 'cause we were, jus' like nothin' else. 'Cept maybe everything else, y'know? He got me all messed up, Daryl, all fucking _fucking_ messed up.”

“Yeah, well,” the other man's still all around him; under his shoulder, draped across his back, so much touching, but it's all the wrong sort. “Six sheets to the wind ain't the time to try'an sort that out.”

Rick stumbles – not sure how, since he's pretty sure he'd been standing still – and falls a little farther into Daryl's grip. “You smell like rain.” He lets the other man know, taking a second whiff just because he wants to.

“Time ta get you home, I think.” Daryl says, and he's so solid. Like granite.

“Wanna go with you,” Rick mutters, and even though his words aren't tough, he means them. “Wanna go home with you.”

“You're killin' me.” Daryl grunts, and shifts a little so Rick's weight is more evenly spread out. Thing is, the way they are, Rick feels like he's floating anyway. “Charger...Rick...” Daryl takes a deep breath. Rick can feel it in his chest. “Where's your boy tonight?”

Carl. Rick knows he's talking about Carl. God, he loves his son.

“With Glenn.” Rick hiccups, and feels like he might be sick. “He's a'ight.”

“'Til tomorrow?” Daryl asks, and Rick doesn't know how to respond, so he just stares. “Alright, we're goin' back to your place.”

And the detective can live with that, he really can, so long as... “You're gonna stay with me?”

“You...” And Daryl looks at him seriously then, with his forehead knotted together and his eyes slanted like a cat. “You gonna get sick?”

“I don't...” but Rick goes to take a step forward and his stomach rolls. He's certain, in that way that drunk men can only be certain about a handful of things. “Yup. Yeah. I feel like...bathroom?”

Daryl gets him over to one so fast that it makes the spinning worse. But, he makes it in front of a toilet right before the contents of his stomach rebel against him in spectacular fashion, so he figures Daryl had probably known what he was doing.

Rick pukes like fucking champ, not leaving any iota of alcohol left unturned. When he's done he feels gutted, and groans wholly when he pushes out of the stall and sees Daryl there, standing against the sink looking fucking clean and sober and soft and perfect.

“Fuck,” he moans. “I didn't mean to do this tonight.”

“Upchuck?” Daryl's grinning like he's not angry at all and can maybe live with this turn of events. “It's good for ya. Makes the day after bearable.”

Rick tries to glare, but probably falls somewhere south of looking threatening. “You gave me tha' last drink.”

“Rinse,” Daryl gestures towards the sink, where's he's already got the water running – a pleasurable cool temperature, Rick notes when he gets there. “And yeah.” He agrees as the detective is splashing water over his face. “One too many's jus' the right amount, ya wanna be coherent tomorrow.”

Rick swishes water around his mouth, and then spits unattractively. But. Hell. Daryl just heard him vomit – not like it can get much worse than that. Besides, his mouth feels like something had crawled up and died in it. “Lori'd be pissed.” He mutters. And, god, he hadn't meant to say that. Hasn't meant to say half the shit he had tonight, truth be told. Daryl just brings it out in him. Like a part of him knows he can lay all his troubles onto this man without getting burned.

At those last words, the hunter's expression gets tight, but he doesn't back down. “I ain't your wife.”

Rick closes his eyes and breathes deep. The bathroom smells like disinfectant, and his own skin pulses with the stench of dirty sweat. The world's still swaying a little, even if his upheaval a few seconds ago left him feeling smoother around the edges.

“Thank god,” he croaks. Daryl had said he's not his wife. And Rick couldn't be more okay with that, because fuck if he wants another wife. Fuck if Daryl Dixon is anybody's anything remotely domestic calm. Rick doesn't need a _wife_. Rick needs a fucking partner, a task master, an indestructible force in the middle of a tornado. Fuck, at this point, Rick just needs someone to hold him and tell him everything's going to be okay.

He looks Daryl right in the eyes then, still half out of breath from being sick, with his face slicked from sweat, and demands half-petulantly, half with the conviction of a man so sure of his fate he believes nothing and nobody can turn the tides, but hoping anyway, “Tell me everything is gonna to be okay.”

The lines on Daryl's face smooth out. He understands drunk desperation too well.

“Everything's gonna be okay, Rick.” He assures, the detective's given name falling off his lips like honey. “And I ain't mad atchaya. Gonna take ya home, though. You ain't drivin' tonight.”

“Don't wanna drive,” Rick confirms, thinking about that ridiculous color-morphing rental car and how Carl can never find it in a crowd. “Makes me nervous.”

Daryl doesn't know what he's talking about, that much is plain on his face; but so's the fact that it just doesn't matter. Rick thinks – and it might be the drunk, or it could be something primal that he can't put a name on in this state he's in right now, but – maybe, _maybe_ , Daryl had just made a commitment to him.

_Til death do us part._

Well, death fucking parted us, didn't it, Lori? And who's fucking fault is that?

He looks at himself in the mirror, but sees more than his own pale face and drawn eyes. The shadow of long dark hair. Thin fingers on a hand held up, as if in a wave; _I'm still here._

_I miss you._

“I can't help you!” He shouts at the image, and doesn't realize until Daryl's eyes are wide and afraid that he'd said it out loud.

He turns his back on the reflections and faces the man who's in this room with him. The one who's alive. He makes his features soften. Even so, Daryl flinches at his approach. Rick's not sober enough to think about what that means. “Sometimes...” he stares at the younger man's clavicle and breathes deep, “sometimes I...there are ghosts. And I can't get away from them.”

It takes a few seconds, maybe an eternity, but Daryl's hands find his shoulders and stay there, like two tiny anchors made up of all the weight in the world. “Talk to me.” He says softly, and maybe that isn't Daryl at all. Maybe it's just hope and need and a million desires all mixing together.

Only, no. Because Daryl's eyes are almost exactly the same shade as his own and he'd recognize them anywhere. “I am.” He responds, and he knows it's stupid and not the point, but he needs to hear more.

Please, god, let there be more.

“Instead'a the memories, I mean.” Daryl says steadily, like granite. “Don't let'em crush you. Lemme help.”

“Talk to you.” Rick repeats. He thinks he gets it now. The power of light to control the tide.

Daryl nods once, firmly. “Know a thing or two about ghosts, Rick. And they'll...they'll steal you outta this world if you're not careful.”

Rick bites his lip hard and squints his eyes like he might start crying. Won't, though. Doesn't want to. So he shuts them instead and reaches out, gripping Daryl's wrists hard, begging him to not let go. “Came here to get away,” he says it so soft that they might not even be words at all – just loud thoughts in the dark. “Didn't expect to find you.”

Daryl squeezes his shoulders tight and Rick can see his face even without opening his eyes. “Well, ya did,” he says softly. They go a long time after that without talking. Rick keeps his eyes shut tight and his breathing steady. He feels anchored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I got straight up hammered to write the second part of this chapter. I edited it sober so it would make sense, but yeah, drunk!Rick is totally a product of…method writing? That’s a thing, right? Either way: Hurrah for authenticity! And beer.


	10. Impulse

***  
***

“So, this lady with the Mazda legit thinks that we're gonna cover her bill for all of this,” Aaron declares two seconds after walking out of the office, dropping the work order down on the desk in front of Dale and sighing heavily. He runs a hand over his face and then glances at Daryl, who's relaxed into the chair across from his boss.

He quirks an eyebrow at his friend's words. “How's that?”

“Well, we never told her that a ball joint breaking could cause this kind of damage.” He says, voice dripping with sarcasm and the weariness that comes from dealing with the clinically stupid.

“We told her every single time she came in, the past three years, that...” Dale trails off, as if deciding mid-sentence that the effort he'd take saying it just wasn't worth it. “Never mind. Daryl, how many hours of labor are we talking about to get that thing back on the road?”

The mechanic thinks it over for a few seconds, mentally cataloging everything he'd just gone through and sorting it into time frames. “If I can get those calipers moving? Non-stop, six hours. Closer to nine, though, if she gives a damn 'bout that exhaust.”

“Oh, that's also our fault, by the way.” Aaron adds.

“Exhaust leak's got jack all to do with that ball joint breakin',” Daryl snorts. “What she gets for livin' on the East coast five years with the thing.”

“I'll call her in a little bit,” Dale sighs. “Once she calms down some. We can't come to an agreement; we'll have to get it towed outta here. Leave the wheels off, for now,” he says to Daryl, “but don't start on anything.”

“Fucking hate those CX-7s anyway,” the younger man huffs. “Make it look like an SUV and people don't know what they're buyin'.”

“Can't blame Mazda for embracing a marketplace,” Aaron shrugs, and moves to sit down in Dale's chair when the older man stands up. “Need a fuckin' drink after that conversation.”

“When's Beth gonna be back up here, anyway?” Daryl asks. “Don’t her private ass fancy school have Christmas breaks?”

Dale grins wide at the mention of the youngest Greene girl. “She’s only out of school for about six weeks, but she’ll be here for most of that,” he responds. “I promised her Saturdays off, though, so she could help Maggie down at the bar.”

“Kid needs to have some fun, too,” Aaron says contemplatively, being the closest one of them to Beth's age and apparently remembering his own school days fondly. “Get herself a boyfriend or a girlfriend or whatever she's into these days, and embrace a vacation of no responsibility. Parties, underage drinking, bars with loud music, and dancing, and-”

“And we know what Aaron would rather be doing right now.” Dale interrupts with an amused chuckle.

The younger man shuts his mouth and flushes, but still says without remorse, “Can't blame a guy for day dreamin'.”

“Yeah, well, back here in the real fuckin' world,” Daryl interjects, “I gonna be gettin' those valves for the Charger anytime this year, or should I jus' start whittlin' 'em outta wheat or somethin'?”

“Jimmy said he was callin' that dealer out in Nashville today,” Dales reminds him. “You know it ain't an easy thing we're trying to do with that car.”

“I can't believe you haven't told Rick about the issues we've been having with that thing,” Aaron comments, looking at Daryl. “Thought you and that guy were, I dunno, hitting it off or something. Daryl took him to poker.” He adds as an aside to Dale.

The older man raises his eyebrows and looks at Daryl like all the questions of the world had just been answered. The younger man, in turn, glares at Aaron with a force that would knock him on his ass if he weren't used to it by now.

“Which is exactly why I ain't tellin' him shit 'til we've exhausted all our resources on the matter,” Daryl says, pointedly ignoring Dale's expression. “I'll get that damn engine up'an runnin' if it's the last fucking-” he stops abruptly. _Smooth, jackass. That ain't gonna give nothin' away_. “I'll get it done.”

“You know, commitment like that from you, Daryl, really says something about-”

“Stop,” he groans, “I ain't looking for sage wisdom, Dale. We're talkin' 'bout fixin' the man's fucking car, a'ight?”

“Of course we are, son,” Dale says, agreeing in that old-man-who-thinks-he-knows-everything kind of way that doesn't sound like agreeing at all. “Why don't you boys get back to work. I'm gonna write up a reduced estimate for the CX-7.”

“Ask me, people shouldn't get breaks jus' for throwin' a fucking fit,” Daryl grumbles, biting back a groan as he stands up, muscles shifting uncomfortably. “Like raisin' spoiled fucking brats.”

Dale chuckles with resignation. “Truer words, Daryl.”

***

“So, Eric told me your boy got smashed on Friday,” Aaron starts without preamble once they get back out to the garage and settle down in side by side bays, glad to be away from customers for a little while. “Sorry I missed it.”

Daryl grunts. He'd gotten Rick away from the others before his intoxication had spiraled into that...thing, that it had become in the bathroom, and as far as anybody else is concerned, Rick is just a boisterous drunk who likes telling stories and gets way too lucky at Texas Hold ‘Em. Maggie and Rosita had both loved him, Eric had jumped on the Daryl-and-Rick-should-fuck-each-other boat that Carol's been captaining since day one, and even Michonne hadn't actively despised him.

“He's a fucking lightweight,” Daryl agrees. “Had a good time, though, I reckon.”

Aaron hums noncommittally, which really says everything. Aaron's about as good as keeping his opinions to himself as Daryl is at keeping his temper in check around adults, and the fact that he's biting back whatever he's got to say right now tells Daryl one thing – he ain't gonna like it.

“You're gonna be careful with this guy, right?” Aaron finally blurts, like he just can't keep it in anymore. “I mean, whatever it is you two've got goin' on...I ain't gonna...I don't wanna see you getting stuck somewhere that ain't good for ya, s'all I'm sayin'.”

Daryl doesn't respond to the words, but he can't help thinking about them.

Watching a man scream at ghosts isn't...well, it isn't something he'd ever thought he'd see outside of the occasional drug addict having a fit, that's for damn sure. Something about Rick's desperation – both that night and in the times they've talked since they've known each other – have rung so achingly familiar with Daryl, though. It's why he'd offered himself as a solution to Rick's heartache. _Lay it on me, brother. I can hold it._

Only, he's not allowed to say _brother_ , not like that, because damn if Shane isn't a more aggressive memory than Rick's wife seems to be.

One day, and one day soon if things keep progressing between them the way they have been, Daryl's going to have to ask who that man had been. Because he doesn't think he'd been Rick's actual brother, not in blood at least. But that's a conversation for another time. A time when Rick's actually talking to him, preferably.

_“You ain't got any idea how much I don't wanna drive that thing, Rick.”_ Daryl had told him Friday night when they'd finally made it out of the bathroom and into the bar parking lot. The mechanic had eyed the older man's obviously rented sedan with open distaste, even though Rick had had his eyes shut the better part of ten minutes by then and definitely hadn't been looking.

Probably better that he couldn't see what being draped all over him had been doing to Daryl, anyway.

_“Sure I do,”_ Rick had slurred, and all but nuzzled his head into Daryl's shoulder. _“Much as I don't wanna, which is a big much, but you 'er the idiot who stayed not drunk, so 'ats all on you.”_

Sometimes drunk people make arguments that are too good for their own good.

So after an awkward few minutes of fumbling around trying to find keys without seeming like he was trying to cop a feel – while Rick seemed more than content to let him feel anything he damn well pleased – Daryl had poured Rick into the passenger seat, just barely managing to get his address and rough directions before the man had passed the fuck out.

The apartment complex hadn't been hard to find. Dragging Rick's half-unconscious ass up four flights of stairs hadn't been a picnic, but Daryl's pretty strong. Good thing, too, because Rick is not as light as his tolerance for alcohol might have you assume.

He'd gotten the older man into his bedroom with only a series of grunts and a few “don't know what's goin' on here, Daryl”'s for his troubles. Once the man's back had hit the familiar plush of his own mattress, he was out like a light, for good this time. Given the situation, Daryl had only felt a little like a pervert stripping off the man's boots, jeans, and button down – his jacket and tie had been lost hours earlier – and leaving him in only a thin white t-shirt and bright red boxers that had done absolutely nothing to help keep Daryl's raging libido in check. He'd stopped himself from jerking off in the other man's house, though, so he'd figured that was something.

Much as he might have liked to settle down next to the detective in that bed, feel that steady weight next to him even if it would have been an innocent thing – Daryl hadn't much liked the thought of waking up to Rick's confusion and, depending on how much he remembered and what he thought about all of it in the sober light of day, outrage.

So he'd made himself comfortable on the couch instead, and stayed there, restlessly drifting in and out of sleep, until Carl had come home the next morning.

And because he'd had to be in Senoia that afternoon, and was already looking at taking a cab back to the bar in order to get his bike, he'd left the Grimes' apartment before the elder of the two had woken up.

Not really much of a surprise, thinking about it, that Rick hasn't responded to the two texts Daryl had sent him Saturday and Sunday. But, Daryl's not one to push in where he doesn't think he's wanted. He'd reached out; it's up to Rick now to reach back.

***  
***

_How you feeling?_

_Don't go getting all twisted up about what happened. We're fine._

Those had been the two texts Rick had gotten from Daryl in the days following his outrageous meltdown at Greene Light Tavern. The first he'd woken up to Saturday afternoon, when he'd still been all but incoherent and probably a little leftover drunk from the night before. The latter had come Sunday morning.

He knows he owes Daryl an explanation – and an apology, at the very least – for how he'd acted on Friday. Take a man away from alcohol for two years and then bring it back on a night like that and, well, he supposes he was asking for trouble. He should have stopped after that first beer had affected him like it had, but Rick's got a bad track record of ignoring his limits.

Thing is, he's not sure what the extent of his apology should be. He remembers telling a story about him and Shane and a runaway drug dealer near the Alabama border, but after that everything starts to get a little hazy. He'd found about two hundred dollars in the pocket of his discarded pants – so apparently he'd had some drunk-luck going for him during the game – but he can't for the life of him recall how those pants had wound up loosely folded on the armchair in the corner of his room.

He vaguely recalls someone driving him home, and checking the parking lot had proved that while his car was there, it wasn't in the same spot he usually leaves it in. He thinks he remembers that person being Daryl, but he also kind of thinks it might have been Shane – and the fact that his brain's even trying to tell him something like that proves to him how incredibly fucked up he'd been. Fucking _messed_ up, he wants to think for some reason, but he's not sure why.

The worst thing is that he remembers talking to Lori's ghost in a bathroom mirror, and he's positive Daryl had been there for that. It hadn't come back to him until Sunday morning when he'd gotten out of the shower; he'd been looking in the mirror, rubbing a hand over the growing stubble on his chin, and all at once it had crashed headlong through his mind.

He'd puked in front of Daryl, he'd clung to the man something pathetic, and then he'd screamed at ghosts. Funny thing is, he doesn't remember Daryl calling him crazy or trying to get him to calm down or anything like that. Just...just reassurance, and something like hope. That part's still foggy.

Five minutes after he'd remembered all of that, he'd gotten the second text from Daryl. Almost like the other man could sense what he needed to hear. And it had made him feel better, albeit marginally.

What's not as muddled as the rest of it, however, is the moment they'd had down at the bar. His hand on Daryl's hip, the younger man's gaze dark with desire, _“You like touchin' me, Charger?”_ Rick shivers at that memory. At the same time, guilt's been gnawing at him ever since he woke up.

Because Carol.

Somehow, in that magical way it's known for, the alcohol had made him forget all about Carol and the promise that he'd made her about not taking Daryl away. Because they're like a family, the three of them, and Rick's never wanted to be the guy who...well, he's never wanted to be _that_ guy.

Then again, he doesn't really take _Daryl_ for that guy, either, and he's actually pretty damn sure that if anything were going on between him and Carol he wouldn't have let that moment progress as far as it had. Of course, there's also always the chance that it hadn't been anything like what he thinks it was, that Daryl's words hadn't been the invitation and promise he remembers them as. That the alcohol had just gotten in there and changed his perceptions.

_Don't get all twisted up about what happened. We're fine._

Rick knows he owes Daryl apologies and explanations – and he'd be lying if he said he didn't want to ask the man exactly what he'd said and done that night – but he's afraid. He's dead afraid that he's ruined the best thing that's happened to him since he came here.

So he lets time pass, more time than he ought to. Three days go by, and he knows he's quick approaching that point where not reaching out shifts from _needed some time_ to _nothing's ever gonna be the same again_ , and thinking about that, about losing Daryl entirely, makes him more nervous than the thought of seeing him again does.

“Hey, Carl,” he says that Thursday afternoon while the boy's doing his homework at the coffee table in the living room, TV set quiet in the background. Rick had been staring blankly at the log-in screen for his bank's website for the better part of half an hour, trying to work up the courage to do what he knows he has, what he wants, to do.

“Yeah?” his son asks, looking up curiously, not even a little annoyed that Rick had interrupted him. He's calmed down so much in the past few weeks.

“Whaddya think Sophia's up to right now?”

Carl looks at him a little strangely, but gestures to his own computer – a smaller one that Rick lets him use to help out with his homework most of the time (and also apparently chat with his friends) – and says, “She's at home with her parents. Why?”

Carl flips back and forth between referring to Daryl and Carol as Sophia's _parents_ , one single entity, and using Daryl's name separately. Rick can never tell if the language holds meaning, or if it's just a matter of convenience.

“How'd you like to go and pay them a visit?”

Carl's eyebrows shoot up – he looks so much like Lori when he's surprised, and seeing it twinges Rick's heart every time. That kind of memory he's used to, though, and wouldn't trade for anything, because his son means everything to him. “What, like right now?”

“Why not?” Risk asks, like spontaneity is something he's known for. “It's only just after five. We could bring ice cream.”

“I...” Carl tilts his head, “should I ask her if it's okay?”

“Of course.” Rick nods. “Tell her to ask her mom.”

Carl starts typing almost immediately, and, less than five minutes later, he's smiling. “She says her mom says it's fine. What kind of ice cream should we get?”

Carl's already putting his schoolwork away, and Rick fleetingly hopes that he at least finished most of it, and makes a mental note that he'll have to talk to his teacher later if he hadn't and gets penalized for it. Not the boy's fault, after all, that his father's up and lost his mind.

***  
***

Daryl's been in a shitty mood the last couple days, and as well as he's been hiding that from Sophia, Carol's an expert at reading even the faintest signs of anger in a person.

They've come a long way in the past eight, nearly nine, months now, though, and when his attitude gets to be too much for her to handle that Thursday, she looks him dead in the eye and says, “You're making me nervous, Daryl. I need you to go work on one of those bikes of the Jeep, or go hunting, or go see Michonne. Do something to blow off some steam, because pretty soon Sophia's gonna pick up on how pissed off you are, too, and I don't want her asking me why you're mad at her all of a sudden.”

“Girl's gonna hafta learn sometime that not every bad mood's about her.” Daryl grunts, even though he knows she's right.

“Maybe so,” Carol agrees, “but I'm asking you.”

Daryl feels a little grouchy at having been kicked out of his own house, thanks very much, but there's no honest resentment there. He's just not used to living with people. And as much as he loves Carol and Sophia both, it's a lot to get used to. Truth be told, he hadn't been thinking much about himself when he'd offered his home to those girls for as long as they needed it, and he sure as hell hadn't thought they'd still be here this many months on. He doesn't regret what he'd done for them, not even a little, but the roll he's fallen into...

People keep saying stuff to him like he's a father to Sophia. Aaron and Eric call Sophia _his_. Rick had assumed him something like a step-parent back when he'd barely known him (though that might have spawned from his fit of aggression at Dale's that day, and Daryl can't really fault him that). Maggie had once asked him for fucking parenting advice on behalf of a friend, and Hershel and Dale both look at like he's kidding himself whenever he attempts to deny the extent of the situation.

Hell, maybe at this point he _is_ kidding himself. He'd been ready to beat a cop half to death for scaring the girl, after all.

_“I don't know what people keep goin' on about,”_ he'd said to Carol once, three or four months after they'd been living with him, when the comments and assumptions had first started to creep in on all sides. _“Sophia, she isn't mine.”_

_“I know that.”_ She'd said calmly. She hadn't reacted to his annoyance at all. Hadn't been scared or offended by it. But quietly, almost too quietly for him to hear, she'd added, _“I just wish she was.”_

After that, he'd stopped saying it to Carol – and he'd never said it Sophia. Never denied her like that, because he knew damn well how that felt. He'll try to set others straight, but at this point even he knows it's a lost battle. People are going to think whatever they wanna think, when it comes right down to it, and sometimes he's more bothered by their need to fucking label everything than he is by what those labels actually are.

So he leaves his own fucking house because Carol asks him to, but he's not really angry about it. He'd needed some time to himself, anyway, and the Triumph really could use a tune up.

He doesn't keep track of time when he's in his own garage. He has to do that at Dale's, because of hours and getting paid and all that technical stuff that comes with working at a reputable place of business. When he's on his own with one of the bikes, or even a car (though he only owns two of those, and the one that actually runs is Carol's more than it is his at this point) he makes it a point to not look a clock. He measures time in the progress he makes, in the sweat he works up, in the dirt under his fingernails.

So when someone raps lightly on the frame of the garage door all Daryl knows for sure is that his shirt's stuck to him from perspiration, his hands are filthy, and that the bike's running as well as it had the day it was made. He's also calmer than he had been before. So calm, in fact, that turning around and finding Rick Grimes standing there staring at him, usual work clothes traded in today for a red t-shirt (same shade as his boxers had been Friday night) and jeans, doesn't even jostle his sensibilities.

In fact, it feels like the most natural thing in the world, him being here like this.

He can't tell if it's a decision or a premonition, but Daryl knows then, knows without a shadow of a doubt, that everything is going to change today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun Dun DUN! Finally: stuff and things might actually happen! Yay!!
> 
> Random life update: My manager is going to a conference next week; which means I’m working ten hours a day for the next eight days straight, which is going to suck and might mean a slight delay in chapter uploading, but I'm going to try my best. Somewhat ironically, the conference he’s going to is in Atlanta, so when he showed me the schedule, all guilty-puppy face, I just told him to bring me back a zombie. I’m not entirely sure he understood why, but I figure even if he didn’t he probably will once he gets there. I’ve never been to Atlanta, but I’m guessing you can’t go very far without running into _something_ Walking Dead themed ;) 
> 
> On a sadder note: I just heard about Alan Rickman's passing. R.I.P. to a great actor and a wonderful man.


	11. Count On It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sunday Fun Day, everyone!!

***  
***

Rick shifts his weight from one foot to the other, not sure what to do with the intensity of Daryl's stare, or with the fact that he'd come here at all today. He hasn't let himself think more than one step ahead, and now that he's here, even that feels like too much.

“I...” he can see the outline of Daryl's abs through his shirt, clinging to him like it is. “Carl wanted to see Sophia.” Which isn't a lie because his son had been excited to visit his friend. Daryl doesn't need to know that the outing had been his idea.

From the way he's looking at him, though – that gorgeous mouth twitched up in a little grin, highlighting the beauty mark above his lip – Rick thinks he might already know. “Did he now?”

It's a challenge, but it feels playful. Rick sidesteps it. “Nice bike.”

Daryl smirks and shakes his head, but let's Rick navigate the conversation. “Yeah, yeah,” he nods towards it. “She ain't bad. Ain't mine, though.”

“Do you work on motorcycles on the side, or...” he leaves it open because he's curious.

“Nah,” he shakes his head. “Well, sometimes.” He amends. “This one jus' belongs to someone else. Hangin' onto it for 'em.”

Rick has a feeling there's a story there, and maybe someday he'll get it. Today, he knows, is not going to be that day. Taking a deep breath and rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, he steels himself for what he's going to say next.

“About Friday-”

“Don't start that like an apology, Charger,” Daryl cuts him off before he can even get going. “Told you, ain't gonna get mad attchya for somethin' like that.”

And...yeah, he _had_ said that. Pieces of the conversation come back to him, jogged by Daryl's words. He'd said something...something about how Lori had hated it when he'd drink, even if he was just kicking back with Shane, and Daryl had said that he wasn't his wife.

He blinks a few times, letting the new memories slot into place around the ones he'd already had. “Kinda fuzzy. Some of that.”

Daryl nods. He breaks up the moment by walking outside. Rick follows him. He uses a faucet on the side of the garage to wash his hands free of grease, and then leads them over to the picnic table. Rick sits down the wrong way, facing the woods with his back to the house. Daryl chooses to sit down next to him instead of across; he splays his legs wide and rests his elbows on the table behind him, taking up as much space as he damn well pleases. Rick can't tell if it's a show of dominance, or if he just feels comfortable enough to spread himself out.

“You wanna ask me about what happened?” Daryl guesses, voice soft.

Rick had, yes. That's exactly why he'd come here. Only...only no it really hadn't been. “I think I actually remember enough.” He swallows thickly, and watches the trees sway slightly in the distance. The day is cooling off in deference to the night, and it makes everything smell different.

_“You smell like rain.”_ He'd told Daryl. And it fits, now that he's thinking about it. Because rain can be a light summer shower that brings with it innocent childhood nostalgia, but it can also be devastating and deadly and something you have to run away from. Or anything in between.

“But I, I do have to ask,” he swallows and tries not to think about thunderstorms. “You and Carol.” He glances briefly at Daryl then, sees only patience, and goes back to looking at nature. “What is that? Because I don't want to...just, what is it?”

The younger man exhales like he's preparing for something. “I met Carol when she and that bastard husband of hers came into Dale's. Ed was, he was rasin' fuckin' hell 'bout some stupid shit, and Dale had'ta ask him to leave. Then I had to make him.”

Rick nods, and keeps shifting his gaze back and forth, because Daryl seems to talk easier when no one's looking right at him, but the detective also needs him to know that this is something he wants to hear.

“Well, she came back a few days later,” Daryl goes on. “With Sophia that time. Apologized 'bout her husband bein' a bastard. Mighta let it go if I hadn't seen a few'a them bruises. Or the way...the way that girl was, jus' about terrified of her own shadow, barely'd even look me in the eye.”

Exactly the telling behaviors that Rick had seen traces of the first time he'd met Sophia. Watching the girl these days, you'd barely know what kind of life she'd come from, and Rick knows she has Daryl to thank for that. The little dragon of longing that had woken fully in his chest last Friday night gives a mighty breath then, warming his heart so fiercely that Rick thinks he might burn from it.

“I went off on her, Rick,” Daryl says, and he sounds almost ashamed of himself. So broken up about it that the older man doesn't hesitate in resting a hand on his knee, even as he fleetingly recalls Daryl doing the same thing for him once.

Daryl stops and looks at it there, then looks at Rick with something in his eyes that the older man can't read because it's gone so fast. He doesn't make any effort to remove himself from the touch.

“I pulled her into the office and railed on'er for stayin' with that bastard. She took it, too. Used to gettin' screamed at, I guess. Flinched every time I got too close. Could barely stand seein' it.” He shakes his head, remembering. “Gave 'er one'a my cards. Told her to call if she ever wanted a better life for her and her daughter. Don't even know why I did that. Didn't have jack all to offer them 'cept bein' able to beat her husband in a fight.”

“You had something.” Rick insists, squeezing his knee. “She called you, didn't she?”

“No, actually.” He chuckles a little then, sad and amused at the same time. “Sophia ended up doin' that. Never figured out why, neither. Maybe just 'cause there wasn't nobody else. Carol, she was, she was in the hospital. It'd been months since I'd seen either of'em. Never figured I would again.”

“What happened to Carol's husband?”

Daryl's eyes slant in his direction. “Well, that depends.”

Rick furrows his brow, “On what?”

“The statute of limitations on aggravated assault, detective.” He responds without missing a beat.

Rick laughs, because sometimes Daryl's humor is so dry that it catches him off guard. Even if, in reality, he shouldn't find something like that funny at all. “Well, seeing as I'm off duty, I think I can probably let that one slide. Assuming you didn't kill him, of course.”

“Nah,” Daryl answers easily, tipping his head back for a brief moment, exposing his long column of his throat and making Rick's own go suddenly dry. “Jus' put the fear of god inta him. Few weeks after Carol and Sophia moved in here, that bastard got sent down south for gettin' pulled over with about two pounds'a uncut cocaine in his trunk. Didn't last but a few months in jail. Got stabbed during a riot.”

“Served him right,” Rick says evenly, “And that's coming from someone who believes in upholding the law.”

“That's good to know, Officer Friendly,” he looks over again, but this time his eyes are just a little too narrow, his expression a little too dark.

“Y’know, you only call me that when you're upset about something.” Rick doesn't know what makes him say it, except that he's pretty sure it's the truth and he wants Daryl to know that he's been paying attention, too.

His features soften a little, and he licks his lips. “Yeah, I guess you ain't wrong.” He admits, easier than Rick would have expected. “Not about you, though. Just...old stuff, gettin' in the way.”

Rick nods. He can understand that well enough, at least.

“Anyway,” Daryl continues, and Rick had almost forgotten for a second how this whole conversation had started, and why it's so incredibly vital to...well, to a lot. “They'd been livin' in a real shitty place, Carol and Sophia. Went by a few times after they let Carol outta the hospital and jus'...too many assholes with guns on drugs thinkin' they got shit to prove. An' I had this whole fuckin' house, y'know? Guilted her inta takin' me up on my offer. They've been here ever since.”

“That...” now that he's got the full story, Rick can't say he's not a little surprised by it. It's not far off from what he'd been expecting, honestly, except for the part where he'd been assuming Carol and Daryl had known each other for a lot longer than they apparently have. High school sweethearts, maybe. “That was an incredibly kind thing you did for them.”

He ignores it when Daryl goes, “Pfft,” under his breath, because he already knows that this man doesn't take compliments well. Not even when they're fit, like he'd once argued.

“What you're doing for them still,” he presses on. “Especially if...especially if your commitment to them isn't an extension of, of feelings you have for Carol.”

“That what you been thinkin', Charger?” Daryl asks with a smirk. “That Carol an' me and that girl are some big happy family and you bein' around's gonna wreck it?”

“Yes,” he breathes before he can stop himself. His hand is clenched so tight over Daryl's knee by now that it's probably hurting him. His heart's pounding rapidly against his chest. “Yeah, Daryl, that's exactly what I thought.”

“Coulda asked.” The hunter mentions, and shifts a little so he's facing Rick almost entirely. “Then again, didn't figure you for wantin' something like this. Never woulda guessed, if you hadn't touched me the way you did at the bar.”

Rick takes that for the invitation it may or may not be, loosening his hold on the younger man's knee just enough to get his hand moving. Slowly he trails it up the outer edge of Daryl's thigh, making his touch light but steady. He settles it on the side of the other man's hip and flexes.

“Been obsessed with these since the first time I saw you,” he says, and barely recognizes his own voice for the lust weighing it down. “Thought about grabbing you even then, even when I figured you were straight as a fucking arrow and probably'd beat me senseless for it. Wanted to,” he runs his thumb over the jutting bone there, showing instead of telling. “For a long while there, I didn't think I'd ever want anybody like this ever again,” and Daryl's eyes go soft, understanding and accepting his pain. “Talked myself out of thinking I wanted you. But, but I just kept thinking about it. 'Bout you. Then I woke up one morning, hard as a fucking rock, and I-”

“Jesus Christ, Rick,” Daryl breathes, cutting him off mid ramble. But that's okay, that's so fucking okay, because the next second has Daryl lunging into his space, putting his hand on the back of his neck like he'd done at the bar, only this time his fingers go up into his hair and he grips hard.

The kiss that follows reminds Rick of crashing thunder, before his mind shuts down and he's entirely incapable of thinking coherently at all. It's not soft or gentle, but it's got enough meaning behind it that it almost feels that way despite the intensity. Daryl's whole body is firm, arms taunt with wanting him and pulling closer, but his lips are soft. Soft and demanding. Then his tongue pushes forward, almost hesitantly asking for permission, and Rick grants it with a little sigh that makes Daryl twitch.

The mechanic takes his other hand and lies it flat against Rick's chest, then moves it over and up his side, then back down again. Feeling, Rick realizes. He's trying to feel all of him. He thinks that's a fucking marvelous idea. He gets a grip on Daryl's other hip, but can't find the right angle because of how they're sitting.

With a frustrated grunt, he pulls away abruptly.

“Wha-” Daryl looks half-lost in lust, and Rick doesn't give him a chance to find his way back.

Quickly, he slings one leg over the bench so he's straddling it, and even though it's not the main thing he'd like to be straddling, it does for now to get him closer to Daryl. Seeing what he's doing and following his lead, the younger man shifts, too, only he takes it one step farther and wraps a leg around Rick's side, using the heel of his foot to push him in closer.

That gesture, the possessiveness of it combined with the sudden friction it creates, makes him groan deeply. “Fuck,” he mutters, letting his head loll to the side as Daryl nibbles his way down his neck, stopping to suck a mark into the crevice of his shoulder. “Fuck, Daryl.”

Rick feels like the only thing keeping him afloat are the hands on his back and in his hair. God, he's wrecked, and just from a kiss. His cock is pulsing so hard that he can't help it when his hand moves in that direction, palming himself through the rough material of his jeans.

“Yeah?” Daryl pulls his lips away but rests his forehead on Rick's shoulder, eyes drawn to his movements. “You hard for me?”

“What'd I say?” Rick can't resist being a little snarky, even if it comes out breathy and needy. “Been hard for you for fucking _weeks_.”

Daryl hums. “Want some help with that, Charger?” And oh, okay, the younger man wants to play it like this. Well, alright then. It's been a long time since Rick's had fun with sex.

“Nah,” he shakes his head, trying to make it look casual. His hips rocking back and forth probably tell their own tale, but they both know this is just a game. “Think I can manage. You just keep on watchin'. Tell you like it.”

And it's true. Daryl's own pants are tented noticeably, though he's restrained himself from touching so far. In Rick's defense, he can count the number of times he's jacked off in the last two years on both hands, and half of those have been in the past few weeks.

“Yeah, I do,” the other man has no problem admitting. He rucks up the back of Rick's shirt then, letting his hands splay over the naked flesh of his back. Rick groans and presses farther forward. Daryl's leg grips around him tighter, and Rick just feels consumed by it. By Daryl and sex and relief and _wantwantwant_.

This is what he’s been waiting for. Wanting. Needing. 

Rick presses the heel of his palm almost too hard against his straining erection. Fuck, he doesn't know if he can come like this. Much as he wants to, as much as Daryl's hands and lips and eyes are leading him there, he doesn't know if he _can_ , because the angle's all wrong and his jeans are too thick and it's just, “not enough,” he whimpers, bucking hard. _“Daryl.”_

His name comes out like a whine, and he might have been embarrassed about that if his own need to come wasn't so overwhelming. This whole thing had happened like...well, like a fucking Georgia storm. All at once and with no warning at all.

“Shh,” Daryl responds almost immediately, “I gotchya.”

His hand joins Rick’s on his crotch then, and the pressure of someone else there, someone other than him, something other than memories and wishing, something solid – it feels like salvation. “God,” he moves his own hand so Daryl's is the closest to his dick, but then presses firmly into that, too. “More.”

He can feel the younger man trying to grip him, but his jeans are so fucking tight and, “fuck,” Daryl growls, and pulls away so suddenly that Rick thinks he might cry.

“But-” he searches frantically for Daryl's gaze, and at the same time tries to get some pressure back where he needs it most. But Daryl has the reflexes of a hunter, and gets there faster. “Whaddya doin'?” He demands when strong hands circle his wrists, holding him back.

Daryl's eyes are filled with desire and mischief. “C'mon,” he tugs a little at Rick's arms. “Stand up,” he demands when the older man keeps on staring at him dumbly.

Because he trusts that Daryl isn't going to leave him hanging, and that he probably has something in mind with wanting to move them, Rick obeys. Getting off that bench is harder (pun intended) than anything he's done in recent memory, and his legs are shaky when he finally manages it.

“Can't go inside,” he reminds the hunter, as lust addled as he is right now, he can't imagine Daryl's in much better shape, and the last thing he wants is for Carol or the kids to see him in the state he's in.

“Someday soon Imma lay you out on a bed,” Daryl promises, even as they start walk-stumbling in the direction of the garage. “Gonna make you come so many times you'll be beggin' me to stop.”

Rick groans. After so long without, torture via over-stimulation sounds fucking amazing. He can imagine Daryl doing it, too. Those impossibly strong arms holding him down, making him endure endless pleasure, writhing under the man, begging him to stop but not wanting him to at the same time, stinking up the whole room with the smell of their sweat and sex.

He's so lost in the fantasy that he barely even realizes when Daryl gets them into his garage. The younger man shuts the door behind them, and immediately has him pushed up against a wall with a hand on his belt.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, letting his head fall back with a thunk. The garage is dim, rays of the setting sun slanting though the high windows halfheartedly, and while there's probably overhead lighting, the mechanic hadn't turned any of it on.

“Know what I'm gonna do to you?” Daryl asks, fingering open the button on his jeans and then using both palms to push them and his boxers down his hips until they fall in a pool around his ankles, fingers lingering over his thighs on his way back up.

“Touch me,” Rick says, and he doesn't know if it's an answer or a plea. He shivers at the stark contrast of the cool air on his now exposed body and the heat of Daryl.

“Well, yeah, think I'll do that, too.” And then he does, strong fingers wrapping loosely, way too loosely, around his throbbing cock. Rick whines and bucks and claws at Daryl's sides desperately.

“Please,” he gasps. “Fuck. Want you. Need...been waitin' so long...didn't think...fuck Daryl please, please, just, please, I can't-ah!”

He exclaims loudly when, in one fluid motion, Daryl drops to his knees and wraps his mouth around his cock. He sucks hard, taking in more of him than anyone else has ever managed, and Rick would probably be bucking impolitely into his mouth if it weren't for the arm pressed against his waist.

“God,” Daryl pulls off with a pop, making Rick whine at the loss. “Next time I'm gonna get you to ask for it proper.”

“Anything,” Rick nods readily. He'd have agreed to move to Antarctica and breed penguins at that point, if it meant Daryl's mouth back on him. “Anything, Daryl, just-”

Maybe sensing the extent of his desperation, maybe just not wanting to wait for it any longer himself, Daryl dives back onto his dick without any farther prompting. While his mouth moves up and down his member in a practiced motion, designed to bring him the most pleasure in the least amount of time, one of his hands goes to his balls, rolling them around like he's trying to get a feel for them. And just that, the thought of Daryl fucking _inspecting_ him, memorizing him, makes him fucking lose it.

He barely hangs on another full minute before the tight coil of pleasure Daryl’s actions are causing snaps. He’d be embarrassed by his lack of stamina if he had any brain cells left to think with. 

“I'm, I'm gonna-” but he doesn't get a chance to say more than that before his hips buck wildly, fighting against the pressure of Daryl's forearm, and he's coming hard down the younger man's throat. Daryl swallows everything he offers seemingly without effort, and only pulls off once Rick's gone completely soft, making him jolt when those perfect, marvelous, awe-inspiring lips catch the oversensitive head of his dick.

It takes Rick, who's tremendously blissed out on the first orgasm he hadn't brought on himself in years – and, fuck, his first blowjob in nearly half a decade – an embarrassingly long time to realize that Daryl, still kneeling on the ground in front of him, has pulled his own cock out of his pants, the telltale rapid motions leaving no room for doubt about what he's doing. Rick can vaguely make out the shape of his dick when he looks down, but there's barely any light and the younger man's moving so fast.

“Want me help you with that?” Rick offers, because he feels like it's only fair.

But Daryl shakes his head shortly, saying, “Nope,” a second before he cries out and comes all over the floor next to Rick's feet. “I'm good,” he pants, and looks up at Rick with a wildly wicked grin. “You can get the next one.”

And Rick laughs. Because Daryl is teasing him, making his desire into something so _okay_ that they can talk about it, and because Rick already knows that he will. He’ll get the next one. He'll give Daryl fucking anything he wants at this point.

He feels loose from his orgasm, barely managing not to slide down the wall, even as renewed heat coils in his belly from watching Daryl touch himself. He catches the glint of Daryl's eyes in the dark. “Count on it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lemme know what you guys thought!


	12. Unexpected Witness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah...'tis the last day of my marathon work week. In celebration, I've penned a minute addition to this fictional endeavor of mine. Doth my speech sound strange? I blame many hours and ample caffeine consumption. Cherry-O, friends! Sanity be merrily fleeting.

***

Friday passes with Rick on a goddamn cloud.

As happy as he is, compared to how static he'd been in the not-so-distant past, it's no wonder that people comment on it.

Morgan let's it slide with a genuine, “glad to see you doing better here, son,” that makes Rick feel warm in a whole different kind of way.

Abraham Ford, on the other hand, doesn't let him get off that easy. “Somebody got fucking _laid_ ,” he declares loudly, and more than half the other detectives in the bullpen stop what they're doing to take stock of him. It's that, combined with the truth of Ford's words, that have Rick flushing noticeably.

“We're going out to Senorita Loco-Crazy Lady's house again.” Ford tells him once the chuckling and scattered applause dies down.

Rick tilts his head curiously. “We didn't get anything out of her last time,” he reminds the older man. “What makes you think we'll get any luckier today?”

“'Cause I slipped her neighbor a fifty to give me a call if she noticed anything noteworthy.” Ford explains, like bribing people is common police practice. “Called yesterday and said a younger girl showed up. Did some digging, turns out she had a daughter that managed to get away from Blake and them when she was a teenager.”

“Well that is something, isn't it?” He says, with a renewed vigor to try and solve this case.

So far all the witnesses they've talked to in regards to Phillip Blake have been on two sides of a fence: either they still worship the man, think he can do no wrong, and are waiting for him to come back so they can prove their loyalty, or they'd known him before he'd started leading the Chapel High Hill cult, and can only attest to things in his past that might have led him down the path he'd taken.

So far, they've had no luck finding reformed cult members. If this girl is who Ford thinks she is, she may just be the break they need to find Blake and bring him to justice.

He and Ford drive an hour to a more rural part of Georgia, where houses start getting spaced out farther and farther between land. It's closer to what Rick had known growing up, and being around it makes him nostalgic and nervous at the same time. When they pull up to the one-story house they'd visited before, mostly in shambles due to lack of upkeep, there's a young woman with dark hair and pale skin sitting on the front steps smoking a cigarette.

“Becky told me she called you guys,” she says as soon as they approach, not giving either of them a chance to explain their presence. “My mom said she'd kill me if I talked to you, but she had half a bottle of tequila for lunch and passed out so I don't really think she's gonna follow through.” She pauses and looks over both of them with unflinching appraisal. “I'm Tara Chambler. Phillip Blake tried to murder me when I was nine years old.”

Rick and Abraham share a startled look. Neither of them had expected to get this lucky today, and their relief at finally having a solid lead on this guy is tempered by their shock, and a little by doubt, too, because nothing is ever this easy.

“If I might ask, Miss Chambler,” Rick ducks his head a little, and tries to look as non-threatening as possible. “How come you never went to the authorities with this?”

“Are you kidding me, slick?” She asks with a loud, humorless chuckle. “I was _two_ when my mom joined that cult. We lived there, I went to school there, I never knew anything besides life there. The older kids would talk sometimes, about life on the outside, but I had no idea. No _fucking clue_ what that was really like. Couldn't even guess.”

She stubs her cigarette out on and meets both their eyes firmly. She's tough, Rick can see that much, but also terrified. She's not over what had happened to her, not by a long shot. He stays quiet and listens, not wanting to ruin this opportunity with his own views.

“I ran away from them when I was fourteen. Got as far as a bus stop and even that, I only knew what it was because of books and stuff. Not many we were allowed to have.” She huffs. “I snuck on. Got as far as Memphis before they kicked me off. First thing I did was wander into a store and grab some food. Ate it right there, too. Never would have guessed you had to pay for stuff like that. Didn't know what happened if you don't.”

She shakes her head, obviously having not talked about these things in a very long time, if ever, and freshly bitter about them. “Detectives...imagine learning all that stupid regular stuff you're supposed to learn as a kid when you're fourteen. Now imagine doing it homeless.” She pauses, as if to make sure they're paying attention. But Rick is absorbing every word. He knows Ford is, too. “You will never understand the hell I went through. And every single bit of it was Phillip Blake's fault.”

“Ma'am,” Ford takes a step closer, and when she doesn't flinch, he settles himself down next to her on the stairs. “Tara,” he starts again, choosing actively to be personal. “You're right. You're absolutely right. I'll never know what you went through. What you still might be going through, for all I know. What I am sure about, though, is that Phillip Blake is still out there somewhere. Still hurting people just like he hurt you.”

“I can tell you where he might be,” she says, just as evenly as she's said everything else so far. “He used to talk to me a lot, because I reminded him of his daughter. Same reason he tried to kill me, too.”

Rick looks at his partner, visibly shocked; nowhere in their case file on Blake do they have any information about him ever having had a daughter. Tara either doesn't notice or ignores their surprise.

“I'll come with you, I'll answer your questions, I'll give you everything I know, but...” she clenches her jaw so tight that Rick can see it even still standing. “But then I'm leaving. I've got a life now, a pretty decent one, and I will not ruin it for that man. I'll never testify against him. I'll never identify him in a lineup. You'd have to kill me to get him in a room with him again. You understand that?”

“Why don't we just head back to the station now,” Rick says, trying to stay neutral. “The three of us can talk and we can go from there.”

“No, I'll go from there.” She snaps. “You get a few hours, and then I'm going home.”

Rick and Ford both nod their acceptance, knowing that no other response will be good enough for her. Even if they do lose her after today, she's still more of a lead than anything they've gotten so far.

Phillip Blake's death toll is already in the double digits, and with departments in four different states, plus the FBI, looking for him, it's probably only a matter of time before he gets backed into a corner. Rick's only concern is what a man like that might do when he feels like he's got nothing left to lose.

***

As promised, Tara talks to them for hours on end about what Blake had done to her when she'd been a child. None of it's pretty, and Rick's stomach is rolling unsteadily just thinking about some of it. Ford tells him during one of their breaks, out in the hall away from her, that he's a little surprised nothing sexual has come up yet.

“Kinda always pegged the sonnova bitch as a pedo,” he'd said with an angry low growl. “Sad that not even that's redeeming him at this point.”

And it's true, somehow. Finding out that Phillip Blake is also a rapist would have made him a worse man in Rick's opinion, but finding out that he's not doesn't make him a better one. He can only hope, for her own sake, that Tara had managed to get counseling at some point for everything this man had put her through.

Morgan, a few other detectives who have been on this case on and off for months, and even their Captain, all have a go at questioning her over the course of the day. She holds up through it all admirably. Rick's just thinking about how it might be nice to take the girl out for a nice dinner, compliments of the Atlanta PD, when Morgan comes in and tells them that she's gone.

“Whaddya mean, gone?” Rick asks, feeling a little lost.

“We can't hold witnesses,” Ford grunts, and doesn't look surprised at all that this had happened. “She knew that. Wanted to take off before we started trying to convince her to stay. And, hell, can't say she didn't give us fair warning.”

“We're not gonna try to find her?” Rick asks, maybe more desperate than he should be. Something about that girl, the life she'd had at such a young age, he'd just wanted...he doesn't even know. To offer her something, maybe. Something more.

“Nah,” he shrugs. His expression is drawn tight, and Rick can tell he's not happy about this turn of events, but he's also not budging. “We chase her now, we'll scare her. We've got her name, her prints, and could probably find her if we needed to. Pick your battles, Grimes.”

Rick wants to protest some more, but really, he knows Ford is right. So instead he finishes up his paperwork and makes to head out for the night, thinking that it's still early enough that he might order pizza when he gets home. He just really wants to make Carl happy tonight.

“Hey,” Ford catches up to him in the parking lot, jogging to meet Rick at his car.

Confused, thinking maybe he'd forgotten to do something important, he stops. “What's up?”

“Didn't expect to have a witness in the car on the ride back today,” Ford starts, “didn't get a chance to talk to you.”

“Alright,” Rick agrees, feeling unsure. “Talk about what?”

Abraham's expression morphs into one of pure power and dominance. He steps forward, backing Rick into the side of his car and leaving almost no space between them. Utterly thrown by this turn of events, Rick reaches automatically for his gun on reflex, his heart pounding. Ford gets there faster. The grip he gets on his wrist doesn't hurt, but it sends a pretty clear message.

“What the fuck, man?” He asks, breathless and angry. “You outta your mind?”

Does Ford have any mental problems? Could he and still be a cop? Is this PTSD? Questions whirl around his mind like bats, flapping their wings and distracting him.

“Daryl Dixon,” he says the name itself like a threat, and that just adds to his confusion. “You hurt that boy? You even _think_ about making his life harder than it's already been? They won't find your body, Grimes. They won't even come close.”

He's still lost in a whirlpool of _my partner just threatened to kill me, how did he know about me and Daryl? Is he serious? Can I ever trust this guy again? He might actually kill me. What happened between him and Daryl that he's this protective of him? My partner just threatened to kill me_ when Ford backs up, his face returning to its normal superior smirk, and claps him on the shoulder.

“Have a good night, Rick.” He says almost cheerily, and then walks back into the station like nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all.

***

_What in the fuck is the deal between you and Ford?_ He texts Daryl in the car, before he can talk himself out of it.

Being a good, law-abiding citizen, however, he doesn't glance at his phone once while he's driving, and by the time he gets home he's settled down some. Abraham Ford plays at being the baddest mother fucker around, and it's not even like he isn't a tough son of a bitch, but that threat had been...well, it'd probably been more about Daryl and Ford than it had been about him.

Ford's not a guy to cross by any stretch of the imagination, but Rick feels pretty confident that he wouldn't _kill_ him.

_Whatever he said, just fucking ignore it. He doesn't know what he's talking about._

Interesting, Rick thinks. Obviously Daryl isn't fully aware of Ford's fierce loyalty to him, and he wonders what the younger man might be thinking he had said.

_Never mind_ he texts back. Then, _Gonna get Carl pizza for dinner. Bring Sophia over?_

Because after the day he'd had, seeing Daryl feels like the best idea in the world. Plus, he'd heard Carol mention something about having a class to attend Friday nights that keeps her out of the house until later in the evening.

_Fuck trying to cook. I'm in._

Rick's grinning like an idiot walking down his hallway. So caught up as he is in his own happiness, he almost doesn't notice the pizza delivery guy walking down the hall opposite from him. Funny, since he's about to call for...but then he actually takes a look at the person under the bright red hat.

“Glenn?” The younger man visibly startles, stopping in his tracks.

“Yeah, hey, hi, Rick.” He says, stumbling over his words like he's not sure what to do with them.

What makes it even weirder is that Glenn is already holding a couple of those insulated pizza carriers, even though he'd obviously just come out of his apartment.

“Yeah,” he says again, this time like he's answering a question. Which Rick hadn't asked, save with his expression, probably. “Sometimes I deliver pizzas. On the side. For a friend. Extra money, you know.”

Rick doesn't, not even a little bit. “Sure.”

“Well, have a good-”

“Hey, Glenn,” he interrupts the younger man, and watches with a detached kind of amusement as his face hardens, expecting the worse. “Friend of Carl's is coming over. Would it be alright if they played video games at your place while you're-”

“Oh, yeah, man, absolutely.” Glenn agrees eagerly, fishing his keys out of his pocket, detaching the one for his front door and handing it to Rick within ten seconds flat. “Just leave it under the mat when you're done.”

“Thanks.” Rick grins widely, and Glenn retreats rapidly. Quietly to himself he mutters, “still don't wanna know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have two full days off work after today. (Two. Full. Days.) It's amazing. I'm looking forward to spending a large chunk of that time writing :)


	13. Domestic Something

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everybody!
> 
> I just wanted to take a sec and say thank you to all of those who have been commenting and leaving kudos. I’ve hit a point in writing this little beasty where there’s kind of a hump I’m trying to get over, and reading all your kind words really does help. 
> 
> Thanks for all the well-wishes about my work week, too. I’ve spent this whole weekend doing a whole lot of non-work things, so I feel less like a mutant robot pod and more like an actual human person. 
> 
> Also, my best wishes to everyone out there affected by this massive blizzard. I’ve seen pictures online and wow. I mean, it’s cold where I am, but we’ve been spared the seventy billion feet of snow. Stay warm out there, guys! And safe. And just indoors if you can. 
> 
> Now I’m done babbling. Enjoy!

***

“Are they too young to be, y'know, in there together like that? Alone?” Daryl asks, looking over his shoulder at Carl's bedroom door almost nervously.

“They're ten and eleven,” Rick assures the man easily. “Were you thinking about sex when you were that age?”

Daryl's face goes dark, almost imperceptibly, at the question. “No, suppose not.” He turns back around, and it would be so easy for Rick to just let that go.

“Daryl?” He questions softly instead, letting his hand drift to the other man's knee, then scale up until its resting mid-thigh.

He shakes his head, and when he meets Rick's gaze, sees what must be lingering there, everything about him softens. “Nothin' like that, Charger. Jus'...figured out pretty early, what I was,” he gestures vaguely, but Rick knows exactly what he means. “Was always scared other people'd get a whiff of it. So I got pretty good at pretending. Too good. Too young.”

Rick nods. He's grateful that it hadn't been more than that, but still also sad for this man's life. So much of which he still knows nothing about. Daryl had grown up in a rough part of Georgia, he'd been allowed to use malfunctioning handguns at a criminally young age, his mother had died when he was young, he has – or possibly had – a brother, and Abraham Ford had known him in his youth and something about that had left him dangerously protective of Daryl. Altogether, its nothing, especially compared to what Rick's dumped on the man concerning his own life.

“C'mere,” he says, reveling in the fact that he can now do this – pull Daryl closer and kiss him just because he wants to. Because it might make the younger man a little happier and that's really all he wants right now.

Daryl hums into the kiss, cupping the side of Rick's face and smiling a little when the older man leans into it. Maybe it could have turned into something heavier, but with the kids so close Rick and Daryl are both trying to keep their sexual desires in check, at least for now. Daryl doesn't know that Rick's got a plan to buy them some alone time later. 

He moans softly when the hunter bites his bottom lip and tugs on it gently with his teeth, but reluctantly pulls away when his hands start roaming around his back.

“Hey,” Daryl catches his chin in his fingers, rubbing his thumb over the trace stubble there. “What's goin' on?”

Rick's surprised, because Daryl's concern is so genuine. He knows something is wrong, and Rick can't even guess at how he might have figured that out, unless he'd read it their kiss. He shrugs and forces a smile. “Rough day.”

Daryl doesn't push him to talk about. Just rearranges them so he's leaning against one of the couch's armrests and pulls Rick back against him. It allows the older man's head to rest on his chest, and Daryl's fingers almost immediately start combing through his hair. “Love how soft this is,” he says quietly, gently tugging on a strand.

Rick hums contentedly, letting the horrors of Tara Chambler's life fall away from him in favor of _this_. Allowing himself a moment to curl up and just rest, knowing someone is here who can handle it if anything goes wrong, someone who's not going to make him feel guilty for needing a minute.

_I think I might be falling in love with you._

A part of him wants to rail against that, mostly on principal, but a bigger part, a much bigger part, just can't bring himself to feel it as anything other than a relief.

***

After they finish dinner, Carl and Sophia go into the living room while Daryl and Rick clean up the kitchen. Which, considering they'd eaten pizza on paper plates, really doesn't consist of much.

“So, I have this neighbor.” Rick starts, tossing some crusts in the garbage. Daryl grunts his acknowledgment. “Cool guy. Let's Carl hang out at his place and play video games.”

Daryl's looking at him now, openly curious as to where this is going.

“He's not home tonight, but if we wanted to, we could send the kids over there. Let 'em play Skyrim or World of Warcraft or whatever it is kids are playing these days.” Rick clears his throat, suddenly nervous at Daryl's raised eyebrows. “For a little while, anyway. Give us some time...”

Daryl chuckles and ducks his head, wadding up a bunch of used paper towels. “Ain't never thought I'd see this day.”

“Whaddya mean?” Rick asks.

“If you'd'a told me a year ago I'd be here,” he gestures with his whole body, but at nothing in particular, “havin' to send kids away in order to get laid proper?” He shakes his head, like he really can't believe it.

“You ain't the domestic type, are you?” Rick agrees, but it's with resignation. All of a sudden it feels like what he's trying to do here is ridiculous. Daryl Dixon isn't anybody's domestic anything; he remembers having thought that once. And it's true. Even with Sophia in his lap and Carol in his kitchen, even with a whole bar full of people who would gladly call him family, Daryl is...he's not like this.

He'd thought, in those first weeks of knowing Daryl, that this man was a wild one – a _lethal_ one – that had gotten fenced in at some point. He'd said as much, even. But the more he knows him, the more he can see that that's not the truth. No amount of people in his life can build a fence high enough to hold this man.

“Hey,” Daryl interrupts his melancholy, sweeping over and wrapping one of those impossibly strong arms around his waist from behind, hooking his chin over his shoulder. “I'm here, a'ight?”

Rick turns just enough to meet his eyes, and sees nothing but honesty shinning in them. But still. “My grandaddy had a horse ranch.” He shares out of nowhere, connecting the dots as he speaks, all the while brushing his fingertips along Daryl's forearm. “And when I was young, before he died, me and my parents used to go there a lot. My mom used to say I learned how to ride before I learned to walk, but that mighta been an exaggeration.”

Daryl shifts around so they're standing facing each other, still close enough to share air. “I remind you of horses?” Daryl guesses. And it just figures, because he's so much smarter than he pretends to be.

But Rick shakes his head. “You remind me of _a_ horse.” He clarifies. “A wild stallion that used to roam the land around that ranch. My grandad, he'd tried so many times to catch him over the years. Eventually accepted that he couldn't, wouldn't, be caught, and that putting him behind a fence was a crime to boot. My mom named him Buttons when she was younger,” that makes Daryl snort, “and that's how I knew him. Buttons the stallion who belonged in the wild.”

“Yeah,” Daryl nods, a crinkle working its way across his forehead. “And what happened to him after your gramps died?”

Rick's startled by the question. “What?”

“After he died,” he repeats, real slow like he's talking to a child. “You ever see Buttons again?”

“I...” Rick actually has to think about it. He'd been a year or two older than Carl when his grandaddy's third heart attack had finally been the one to kill him. Mostly he just remembers being sad. “Once,” he finally plucks out the memory and dusts it off. “Right after the funeral. Not again after that.”

“Know why?”

“Can't see how anyone could.” He says uncertainly.

“It's 'cause that stallion died, too, Rick.” Daryl says, and it's with such an absolute certainty that the older man doesn't doubt the truth of it for a second. “'Cause he lost the people who were...who were willin' to let him stick around and still be free. The people who let him stay, even though he wasn't one'a them.”

Rick's heart clenches painfully. “Daryl...”

“I ain't ever gonna be _kept_ ,” the younger man finishes, voice firm and hopeful both. “But I'm willing to stick around.” He cups the side of Rick's face, rubbing his thumb along his jaw like he had earlier. “I want that.”

“I want that, too.” He responds without thinking about it, without needing to think about it.

Daryl nods once and then kisses him, closed mouthed and firm. Rick knows it's a promise.

***

Daryl's a different kind of person than any Rick's ever met before. He's a study in contradictions, really: violent and calmer than he looks, affectionate and closed off, precise and wild. He's a hunter who chooses fists when it comes to humans, and that's just something else altogether – thinking about this man in a fight. It shouldn't turn him on the way it does, but Rick's never claimed to not be a little paradoxical himself. A cop who appreciates the capability for violence in a partner. He doesn't know what that is, but he can't deny it.

It's also more than all of that, too. Who Daryl is. And Rick's just beginning to learn, because being with him like this is opening up so many doors. Like, Daryl is also gentle. He lays Rick down on the bed like he might break, and runs hands over him like he's willing himself to memorize, and kisses like he's worshiping.

“When's the last time you been with a guy?” He asks, and Rick's already so wrecked just from being half-naked and kissed that he doesn't know how much else he might survive.

“Long time,” he sighs, tugging a little until Daryl's up next to him, propped up on his side with one hand under his head and the other feeling it's way around Rick's chest – stopping occasionally to tweak a nipple and make Rick groan. “College.”

Daryl's still got his shirt on – some blessedly thin pale blue thing that leaves little to the imagination – but his pants had gotten kicked away a while back. His boxers are black cotton, and Rick can't help it when he rolls over a little and rubs at the elastic resting at his hipbone. Dipping his fingers under it when the younger man's eyes go tellingly dark.

“You're rememberin' well enough,” he says, and Rick smirks.

“Wanna taste you,” he says, and Daryl groans a little in the back of his throat. “Promised you I'd get the next one.”

“Have at it, Charger,” Daryl agrees readily, switching their positions so he's the one laying back against the pillows.

Rick wastes no time in removing Daryl's underwear then, marveling at what he'd missed in the darkened garage last time. Yesterday.

Shit, it feels like so much longer ago now.

Daryl's just as muscular as he looks under his clothes, and his waist does that thing, that angular jutting thing that leads right to his cock. And, god, that cock. Maybe it's because it's been so long since he's seen one anyplace other than the mirror, but it looks impossibly long. Thick, too, though not quite as much so as his own. Which is something, at least, because Daryl's got him beat on length.

“Hey,” Daryl interrupts, and Rick looks up at him almost petulantly. He hadn't been done staring. The younger man smiles fondly. “Keep lookin' all ya want,” he says, and it's with that gentleness again, like he can read exactly what Rick needs. “Jus' do me the courtesy of lettin' me do the same.”

With an exaggerated eye roll, he goes about removing the rest of his clothing. When he crawls back up on the bed he gestures for Daryl to raise his arms so he can get his shirt off, too. Total nudity for all, and for all a good night.

The younger man hesitates, though, biting his bottom lip like he does sometimes when he's trying to make a decision. “What's wrong?” Rick asks, because he doesn't have a clue what could be in this moment.

“Nah, nothin',” Daryl shakes his head and lets it go. He removes his shirt and sets it next him on the bed before lying back against the pillows. “Carry on.”

And because Daryl's spread out in front of him naked, willing to let Rick touch him, _wanting_ Rick to touch him, he does.

He starts at his knees, bony like they'd never met the rest of his body on the other side of puberty. He kisses there, and then moves up. Thighs that are hard muscle under his lips and hands. Those hipbones, jutting and perfect. He spends a lot of time there, sucking a bruise into one of them that will last days, if not longer. Daryl doesn't seem to mind, bucking into the sensation with a strained noise, and clenching the sheet in his hands like he’s trying to stop himself from grabbing what he really wants to grab. 

When Rick reaches the scar, that burn that Daryl had shown Carl weeks ago to prove a point, he traces it with his fingers. The other man goes still, but not tense. Like he's waiting for something, but has already accepted every possible outcome. Rick purposely doesn't look at him; doesn't ask for permission or hesitate. He just kisses it twice and moves on. Daryl exhales a breath that feels a lot like relief, and the moment passes.

Rick bypasses his cock, and smirks a little at Daryl's groan – the younger man can probably feel it as his lips trail across his stomach. Lori had always liked it when Rick had dipped his tongue in her bellybutton, but when he does it now Daryl jerks and hisses.

Rick looks up and meets his eyes, questioning. “Tickles,” the hunter explains, and Rick nods. Learning. This is all about learning.

He moves farther up, grazes his teeth over Daryl's left nipple while his fingers pinch the right. This time, he hears a very different kind of hiss for his efforts. When he gets to the mechanic's neck he does what he'd been waiting to do since the day before; lick over his adam's apple and suck lightly at his pulse point.

Daryl's hands are still making fists in the bed sheets, but Rick wants more than that now. Wants some kind of physical indication that what he's doing here is what this man wants. “Touch me,” he breathes, and Daryl must have been waiting for some sign that it was okay, because his hands are on Rick in a heartbeat. Running up and down his sides, carding through his hair, gripping his shoulders.

“You playin' with me, Charger?” Daryl demands, lust-rough and impatient.

“No,” Rick answers, more honest than he'd expected. “Just wanna...wanna know you.”

Daryl's eyes fill with warmth. “Okay.”

By the time he makes it back there, Daryl's dick is achingly hard and dripping. Rick licks tentatively over the slit and feels empowered when the younger man moans and tightens his grip on the back of Rick's neck – an echo of his touch at the bar that night, the night that had changed everything.

It's been a long time since Rick's had another man in his mouth, and for a few minutes he doesn't really remember how it works. Nothing could make him forget the feel of it – heavy and absolute, sliding towards the back of his throat like it belongs there – but some of the mechanics are foggy. Cover your teeth, keep the speed right, grip the base, and pay attention. But quickly, remarkably quickly, it all comes back to him.

Daryl's hand on his neck – which runs back and forth from there to his hair – provides a pretty solid baseline. His fingers tighten when Rick does something he likes – flick his tongue over the ridge of the head, press up on his balls – but loosen when he lets up on the suction.

He doesn't even realize that he's teasing until, at one point, Daryl's hips buck up almost violently, and when Rick pulls away he notices that his jaw is sore. When he lifts his head enough to look at Daryl's face he's awed by how strung out the younger man looks. “God, you're amazing,” he can't help but say it.

“Hmm,” he brushes Rick's hair away from his forehead. “Ya ready to switch things around a little?”

Rick's interest piques. “Howdaya mean?”

Before he can even blink, Daryl's got their positions flipped. With all that upper body strength, it's not hard for him to get his hands under Rick and land him on his back. The older man huffs, and wonders if he should be concerned about how that display has his dick twitching readily. Then, concern is pretty much the last thing on his mind as Daryl slots himself between his legs, gets both their dicks in one of his hands, and starts thrusting.

“Ain't gonna last long, Ace,” Daryl groans, staring down at him, eyes so blown from arousal that they look black. “Got me all worked up. Your mouth – _gawd_.” He thrusts brutally hard, and Rick almost aches from wanting to feel that somewhere else. 

And when Rick stretches his arms out above him, fingers twining around the headboard, Daryl shifts his weight just enough to move his free hand there, and grip his wrists tight. The motion, combined with the added pressure, is enough to make Daryl come with a muted shout. Rick watches his face contort in pleasure, flexes his fingers in Daryl's hold, and lets the feel of the younger man's come between them push him over the edge, too.

Panting, Daryl rolls away from him, landing on his back, with one leg flung over Rick's. The detective stretches like a contented cat, and turns towards his...god, his lover. They're both wearing sweat and tiny little smiles like badges.

“This is a thing now, huh?” Rick asks, because after all those years of talking after sex, the silence feels like he's doing something wrong.

Daryl just leans over and kisses him. For the first time in a long time, no answer feels like all the answers he needs.

***

Right before Daryl and Sophia leave that night, the younger man turns to him and asks, “When's your next day off?”

Rick thinks about it; time's gone a little hazy around the edges since Daryl had become a part of his life. “Tuesday. But Carl's got a thing at school so, uh, Friday.” He mentally double checks the calendar on his work desk. “Yeah. Friday.”

“Wanna do somethin'?”

The response comes from his son, eagerly hovering around Sophia. “Yes.”

Daryl looks at the boy, eyebrows raised teasingly, and responds without missing a beat. “Well then how about's you come over to our place, spend some time with Sophia and her ma, while I take your daddy out somewhere?”

Rick feels nervous at Daryl's words, because for as much as he wants to spend more time with this man, he's not ready to tell Carl about this thing between them. He doesn't even know if his son is old enough to understand the complexities of his dad being bisexual, never mind the emotional reaction of him being involved with _anyone_ in the wake of Lori's death.

But Carl surprises him, nodding eagerly at Daryl's suggestion. He probably doesn't grasp the implications of it, Rick reasons, and sees only an opportunity to spend more time his new friend. “Yeah, can we?”

Daryl looks at Rick, eyes hopeful.

The detective's heart clenches, because he doesn't think Daryl is the sort to hope for things easily.

“Yeah,” Rick breathes, because it was never really a question. “Yeah, I think we'd like that.”

Being with Daryl makes Rick feel calm in a way he hadn't since long before Lori and Shane had died; but, as they say their final goodbyes, Rick's starting to remember another feeling, one that sits above his calm and creates its own, faster rhythm – excitement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I add a tag for Buttons? I feel like Buttons deserves a tag.


	14. Fast Approaching

***  
***

Daryl can hold his own with a bottle of liquor. Had his first taste of alcohol back when he was barely out of diapers, sipping from his daddy's beer bottles and his mama’s wine glasses because he saw Merle doing it and wanted to be just like his big brother. A few years on and cheap vodka was just another way to drown out the bullshit of his life – clichéd teenage wallowing, except that Daryl was stuck in a place that most grown men would have run from. He'd said as much to Abraham Ford the first day he'd met him, too. If only the bastard would have listened.

Later, moonshine and whiskey became a few of his father's weapons; _“C'mon, just one more drink ya fucking piss ant. Show me whattch're made of.”_ Because Daryl eventually learned how to fight back, but he never could master backing down.

Knowing how to drink is a weapon, and Daryl wields it with the same precision he's got with a gun, a crossbow, and his own body, even if it hadn't come as natural to him.

These days, he won't shy away from a drink here and there, but he barely remembers the last time he's been anything more than pleasantly buzzed. Besides the fact that it takes damn near half a brewery to get him loaded, he just doesn't like taking the risk. Because it's always a gamble, which sort of drunk he'll stumble into; and while affectionate and loose-lipped is all well and good, angry and violent is...well, angry and violent. And the tides turn too easy when he's under the influence.

For her own reasons, Carol doesn't like having alcohol in the house. Can't stand the smell of it on other people – especially bourbon. She's told him, time and again, that she's not trying to control his life, and if Daryl wants a six-back or a bottle of tequila, she isn't going to flip shit over it. But Daryl's just fine not having it around. Drinking's what bars were made for, after all, and Maggie runs one of the best.

“You've been out and about a lot lately,” she says to him a few nights after his one spent at Rick's, flopping down beside him on the couch after Sophia goes to sleep. “You finally take my advice and bed yourself a detective?”

Daryl thumbs through TV listings and stays silent. Carol's grin is louder than the episode of _Breaking Bad_ he eventually settles on. He hates this show for being as good as it is.

“I guess that explains why you took Sophia over to his place last week,” she hums thoughtfully. “Y'all weren't alone for more than an hour or two, by my daughter's count. So, tell me; have you actually had sex with him yet, or has it just been fooling around type stuff?”

Daryl narrows his eyes and focuses intently on a scene between Jesse and Walt, wondering if it's strange that all he sees there is affection; even though, objectively, he can read the potential for something so much darker.

“Waiting for the right moment, probably, for all the other stuff,” Carol nods like she's responding to something he's said. “Smart, if you really care about the man. Which you seem to, I think. Sophie says you're taking him on a date this Friday?”

He makes excuses for Walt's behavior, he knows that. He sympathizes with Jesse's character, but he can't work up the nerve to defend him. _Take what you can get_ floats around the back of his brain as he watches. He'd never say it, he doesn't even like admitting to himself that he thinks it, but Walter does more for Jesse than anyone cooking meth had ever done for Daryl.

“I can't really imagine you on a date,” Carol continues on, half facing him on the couch with a cup of hot chocolate in her hands. She hadn't offered any to Daryl, and he's both petulantly annoyed and decidedly grateful for that. “You're not the flowers and restaurant type. Not unless he is, maybe, but this one's gonna be all on you. I'd go with hunting, except you guys have already done that, and I can't see you taking him to a club. Back to the bar?”

Walter White's life is just this continuing spiral of deception. For every decision his makes, his family gets closer and closer to the epicenter of destruction, but still they remain oblivious. He loves them enough to lie to them.

“I'll keep guessing until you give it up, Daryl Dixon.” She nudges his knee. “And the episode that airs after this is one you haven't seen yet.”

_Dammit._

“Grayson's.” He finally barks, but doesn't look away from the TV. “Imma take 'im out to Grayson's.”

She's quiet up until the next commercial break, and Daryl finally lets his attention avert fully to her. The emotion he sees in her eyes isn't on par with what he'd just told her, not in his mind. Not really.

“What?” He asks, barely biting back a groan.

She just shakes her head. “Nothing.” She says evenly. He looks at her steadily, but she doesn't back down. After a few minutes or so of that, just a silent stare-down between emotionally stunted adults, she clears her throat and says, “You're gonna make him break the law.” Like he doesn't already know that.

He smirks, right before shifting his focus back to the television. “Does the body good, every once in a while.” he mutters, not looking at her but knowing she's watching, “Good'ol fashioned felony.”

***  
***

The next few days pass slowly for Rick. Caught up as he has been with Daryl, his new job, and trying to balance the reality of life as a single father, he’d actually managed to forget that Christmas is fast approaching. Forgot, until one morning he goes to wake Carl up for school and his son grouches at him and refuses to get up because, “I don’t have to be at school again until _next year_ , dad, jeez, just lemme sleep.”

And when he thinks about it, he does remember all the teachers at the conference the night before talking about the holiday break. He’d been distracted by other stuff that night, like how every single adult who spends a significant amount of time with his son every day describes him as, “quiet, almost shy, but incredibly smart. He doesn’t always participate, but when he does it’s to everyone’s benefit.”

It had thrown Rick, those assessments, because he’d just assumed that Carl’s behavior in school would mimic his behavior at home, and honestly, he’s not sure whether he should be grateful that it doesn’t, or worried that all of Carl’s anger seems to be directed at him and no one else. He and his son have been doing a lot better since they’d met Daryl, Carol, and Sophia, but they still have their fights. Normal disagreements about bed times and schoolwork that get out of hand at the slightest provocation. Carl’s still grieving, in a lot of ways, which isn’t necessarily surprising, but it’s getting to a point where Rick’s been considering sending his boy to talk to someone, a professional someone, about it. He’d even mentioned it once, right after Thanksgiving, but Carl had balked so hard at the idea that Rick had let it go. 

He’s still not sure if that had been the right thing to do. 

He’d gone out the day after Carl’s parent-teacher conference and bought a Christmas tree for the apartment – one of those fake ones, because their lease says they’re not allowed to have a real one. Fire hazard, apparently. They decorate it together with ornaments that Rick had picked out at Target; he’s not sure that either of them are ready for the emotional onslaught of going through all the family decorations that Rick has packed away in their basement storage unit. It’s not the experience Rick had been hoping it would be, but they manage it without fighting or tears. 

He trusts Carl alone in the apartment while he’s at work, but bribes Glenn with a full case of Mountain Dew to check in on him every few hours. For all of Carl’s emotional issues, though, he doesn’t seem prone to running wild through the streets, at least. Mostly he seems content to stay in his room on his computer listening to music, or playing video games at Glenn’s when he’s feeling particularly social. It’s not the best arrangement in the world, but Rick thinks it’ll have to do for now. 

At the precinct, Rick's been spending most of his time with Morgan and a profiler named Sasha who's been assigned to work with them on the Phillip Blake case; Abraham Ford and a few other detectives have been out in the field more, tracking down potential leads. Rick's not avoiding the man, exactly, it’s just kind of off putting; not that Ford had threatened him – that he can understand, the same way he can rectify Daryl's behavior that night he'd thought Rick a danger to Sophia – but the way he can behave in light of it like nothing is different now.

Rick knows Ford would never _kill_ him, but his threat had been a real one all the same: _Fuck with Daryl and I fuck you up_. It makes him feel disarmed because he still doesn't know what had happened between those two in their past to spawn Ford's protectiveness, and because, well, because Ford _knows_. Knows Rick's with Daryl _like that_.

Rick's not sure how he feels about that just yet, people knowing. Add it to everything else and it's just been easier, working different cases, and different parts of the same case. And maybe avoidance is the hand he's been playing, since their exchange in the parking lot, but given their jobs, he knows it won't last long, and he's ready to deal with that soon enough.

In the meantime, he's been thrumming with excitement over the chance to get to spend time with Daryl away from everything else. As much as he loves his son, and as much as Rick knows Daryl loves Sophia, the kids are a hindrance when it comes to building something like this. Something romantic. Something...steady. Something new.

Sometimes, late at night, he'll catch himself staring at his closet door, seeing, without really being able to see, what's sitting on that top shelf, pushed back into a corner. He hasn't touched that box for weeks now, but he's forever aware of its presence. He'd promised himself a while back that he'd go and see a therapist as soon as he got around to...dealing, with that. But he still can't even think about it in solid terms. That’s why he hadn’t pushed the matter with Carl, either, if he’s being honest with himself. How can he force his son to confront his issues when Rick is still hiding like a coward from the biggest of his own?

_“Know a thing or two about ghosts, Rick. And they'll...they'll steal you outta this world if you're not careful. Don't let'em crush you. Lemme help.”_

He'd been six sheets to the wind when Daryl had said those words to him, but they're in his memories all the same. He hears them some nights the same way he can still hear Lori and Shane. In those vulnerable moments right before he falls asleep, when the truth seeps in around the edges, he finds himself torn between thinking Daryl can fix what's fucked up in his past and knowing that he can't. 

No matter what else is happening between them, regardless of what they become, even if the love that's trying to bloom out of that little dragon of desire in his chest gets it's wish and he and this man spend the rest of their lives together...Daryl can't undo his past. Daryl can't _fix_ what Lori had done. Unless, of course, he can.

And that's the endless cycle he's trapped in.

That's only at night, though; when the ghosts rattle at their cages. During the day, he's happier than he's been in years. And despite the hurdles they’re still facing, Carl _is_ happier than he's been in months, too. And that, well that just means everything to him.

He and Daryl continue on texting one another throughout the day, damn near every day. Daryl bitches about Aaron and Dale and cars and the customers he's forced to deal with (not many, and never alone); Rick bitches about criminals and suspects and profilers who think they're better than regular detectives because they've got a few extra years of school under their belt. They make each other laugh and never hold grudges if messages aren't responded to in a timely fashion, because they both get having to work and having kids and never being on the phone when you're driving (Rick because he's a good cop, Daryl because you can't text and ride a motorcycle unless you're a fucking idiot).

They never call each other. Daryl had told him once that he hates talking on the phone, more than he hates it in person, even (though they both know that's not the whole truth by now) because you can't see expressions or judge body language over the phone.

 _Makes me nervous._ He'd said. _Gotta be able to read you._

 _You sound like my profiler._ Rick had responded, but had added a little smiling face to make sure the other man knew he was joking. He gets it, where Daryl is coming from with that. Hell, he'd been ambivalent to texting up until he'd found out Daryl likes it. But he'll always prefer being in a room with somebody to not.

Which is why, when Friday rolls around, he finds himself so worked up, excited and nervous both, that he can hardly contain it. He hasn't been on a date – an actual, honest to god _date_ – since he was in college. Him and Lori had the occasional “date night” back at the beginning of their marriage, and then a few later on, when they were trying to fix things, but it's not the same. Going out with someone you know that well, it's different from this beginning-of-something-new feeling that he's got for tonight.

He's expecting Daryl to take him someplace nice, but not fancy – man doesn't seem big on formal and Rick can more than live with that. A steakhouse, maybe. Or even back to Greene Light Tavern. A place where they can relax and talk and, most importantly, be alone. Hell, at this point, Rick doesn't care where they wind up, so long as that alone factor holds true. He's been dying see who Daryl is away from everything else in his life; craving that sort of intimacy.

“You guys haven't been alone together at all since you've met?” Glenn asks him, after Rick's done paraphrasing his expectations for the evening.

“Yeah, I mean we have.” Rick amends. “Here and there. Longest was for a few hours when we sent the kids over to your place last week. But mostly we just used that time to...uh...”

“Bone?” Glenn asks, with a single quirked eyebrow. And maybe Rick's been misjudging this man's interest in him, because he doesn't look even remotely jealous.

“Yeah,” he agrees sheepishly, ducking his head a little, but grinning.

“Well, that's good,” he says, and sounds like he means it. “Get the sex out of the way first, so you know at least that part works.”

“It does.” Rick agrees without thinking. He doesn't regret saying it, even when his words catch up with him. “It really fucking does.”

“Hey, my brother and his wife have been married fifteen years,” Glenn shares, “and he always says that sex, talking, and fighting are the three most important things that a couple should know how to do well together.”

By those standards, his marriage with Lori had fallen apart about three years after they'd had Carl. And, weird as it sounds, Glenn's words (or, he supposes, Glenn's brother's words) make perfect sense. “Communicating,” he says, and Glenn looks at him with his head tilted. Huh. Maybe this man, young as he is, has never been in love. “Those are all just different ways of communicating.”

Glenn's face clears instantly, “Yeah, I guess you could look at it like that.”

He and Daryl have the sex part down so far, and Rick can only see it getting better from here. If you count texting as talking, then they're masters. Hell, even if you don't, their in-person conversations have been the most real that Rick has had in years. And he doesn't think he's alone in that. Fighting, of course, he has no idea if they can do. They haven't known each other long enough for that yet. But they’d survived Daryl thinking he was trying to hurt Sophia, so Rick isn’t horribly afraid that a domestic dispute will be the end of them. 

Glenn’s going to spend the holiday with some of his family in upstate New York, and Rick had offered him a ride to the airport. Right now, they’re just killing time until they have to leave; he hadn't meant to spend that time telling the man all about his budding relationship, but it turns out he can't really help but talk about it. He tries not to feel guilty over the fact that he hasn't told Glenn that the person he's been alluding to is, in fact, another man. He hasn't _lied_ , he reasons, but rather has kept his wording carefully neutral. He'd tell the truth if Glenn asked it of him, but so far he hasn't.

 _I'll be home around 6, but you and the boy can come by sooner. Carol will be there._ Daryl had texted him yesterday, and though Rick had planned on only showing up a half hour or so before Daryl would be there, Carl insists on bringing his overnight bag to the airport and going straight to Daryl’s after they drop Glenn off. Rick caves without much resistance. 

“I hope you have a good time tonight, Rick,” Glenn says genuinely, as they're loading his stuff into Rick’s rental car. “You deserve to be happy.”

“Thanks,” Rick nods, a little taken aback by the comment, but appreciating it nonetheless. “You do, too, y'know,” he adds, and it might be pushing the boundaries of their particular flavor of friendship, but he feels like he needs to say it. “You're a good guy, Glenn. I hope you get out and have fun every once in a while.”

“Yeah, man,” he agrees, but something about the way he says it feels like lying. “'Course I do.”

Rick makes a vow then to introduce Glenn to some of the people in his world, deciding on the spot that if building a new life is what he's doing for himself right now then he definitely wants Glenn to be a part of it. The younger man had helped him before anyone else had, and for that he'll always be grateful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda just a little beginner teaser for Date Night, but there's much more in store soon, I promise!


	15. Wreck Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna be honest with you guys: Date Night is the part of this story that I've been having a lot of trouble writing. It's gotten longer than I'd initially thought it would (at least 2 more chapters) and includes a lot of stuff that I wasn't planning to bring up for a while yet. Stupid boys just got all talkative *fake glowers at muse* But I've tried rewriting it a few times and it's pretty much no use. All I can say now is: I hope you like it, and I'm going to try really hard to get the next chapters out quickly so everything reads cohesively.

***

He and Carl show up at Daryl's around half past four, and Carol's the one who opens the door for them. She smiles warmly and ushers them inside.

“Well don't you look nice, Detective Grimes,” she says, and it's gently teasing in a way that makes warmth bloom to life in his gut even as his cheeks flush.

“Thank you,” he mutters, scratching a little at the back of his neck. He'd spent an embarrassingly long time trying to decide what to wear for this evening; and had eventually settled on a crisp white button down shirt with shiny silver studs on the pockets, and a dark pair of jeans. Practically, he knows that the ensemble will more than likely be plenty acceptable for anywhere Daryl might take him. Less practically, he's always been told that he looks hot in white.

“Dad, can I go hang out with Sophia now?” Carl asks, nudging him a little. Rick looks down at him with his sternest expression. “I mean,” he amends, and turns towards Carol, “Thank you for letting me come over and spend the night tonight. I appreciate the hospitality.”

“Such a charming Southern gentleman you are,” Carol says, nodding. “You're welcome, Carl.” His son blushes the same way his father does – from the tips of his ears on down. “And Sophia is upstairs in her room. First door on the right. Go on up.”

Carl makes a beeline for the staircase, and Rick stays quiet until he hears the telltale rapping of knuckles on wood, and then the quiet mummer of young, excited voices.

Rick turns back to Carol. “Really,” he repeats. “Thank you. I hope we're not imposing too-”

“Stop that,” Carol cuts him off sternly. Maybe it's just because he's only ever known them together, but Rick feels like at least some of her strength is a reflection of Daryl's. “Come have coffee with me. Got a while yet before Daryl gets home.”

Once they're settled in on the couch with their coffee – Carol's with cream and a little bit of sugar, Rick's black – the detective finds himself at a loss for how this conversation is supposed to go. Nowhere in his obsessive googling about the dos and don'ts of modern gay dating had he run into anything about making casual small talk with the woman who lives in your potential partner's house and is kinda-sorta raising a kid with him.

Almost like she can read his thoughts (or, more likely, his facial expressions) Carol pats his knee and says, “It's a little strange, I know.”

“No, I mean,” Rick objects at once, beyond sure that upsetting this woman in any way would be a deal breaker for Daryl. “It's not...I understand what-”

“Best to get this out of the way now, Rick,” she interrupts, sounding firm, “You're halfway to madly in love with a man that I've been sharing my life with for the better part of a year. You've probably got questions. And this conversation, it stays between us, alright?”

Rick blinks rapidly a few times and sets his gaze on a matte painting of the ocean on the other side of the living room, wandering which of them, Carol or Daryl, had brought that bright blue landscape into this home.

He doesn’t wonder the same thing about the Christmas tree – easily six feet tall, it encases the room with the scent of pine and nature. He can easily picture Daryl lugging it inside, and watching idly as Carol and Sophia decorate it. Set next to his attempt at creating Christmas cheer, this room feels like everything he wants his own life to be and more. 

“Did he tell you about it?” Carol asks after Rick's stayed silent for a beat too long, and the detective drags himself away from his musings. “My...past? How we ended up here?”

“Yeah,” Rick nods, and meets her gaze then because he can't not. “I'm sorry, truly. For what you and your daughter went through.”

“Thank you,” Carol acknowledges, and her expression turns pained for a few moments, remembering the life she'd had before. Quickly, though, it clears, turning back to absolutely resolved about having this discussion. “It's not a stretch to say that Daryl saved my life. And my daughter's. I owe that man...well, more than he'll ever admit. Last thing you have to worry about, Rick, is me trying to get in the way of this thing y'all are growing.”

“I remember saying almost the exact same thing to you once,” Rick recalls, smirking at how utterly dense he'd been at the beginning of this. “You never told him about that, did you?”

“I might have,” she shrugs, “if you guys hadn't figured it out for yourselves, but it didn't take you all that long to get here.”

“Feels like it did,” Rick sips his coffee. “Feels like I've been wanting him for years.” He blushes at his own words, but powers through, because he knows this is important. “Same time, though...for as much as I'm still getting to know him, much as we're still feelin' each other out...I dunno. Feels like I've known him my whole life, too. It's weird.”

Carol hums noncommittally, but smiles like she knows a secret.

“Do you love him?” Rick asks, and it comes without any sort of warning. Soon as it does, though, he knows it's the one question he has to ask her.

“Do I love him?” She repeats, and the cop in Rick sees the tactic for what it is – repeating the question in order to buy time.

“Yeah.” He says firmly. “Because that isn't the same thing as not getting in the way of us.”

“No, I suppose it's not.” She agrees. “Think of me like his sister, Rick. I'm always gonna be here, and I'm always gonna want him to be happy, but it's never gonna be that way with us.”

A better man might leave it there, might let Carol's assurance be enough. But Rick's never claimed to be the best of men. “That doesn't answer my question.”

“Daryl Dixon was the first man in nearly twenty years to be kind to me for no other reason than he felt like it.” She squares her shoulders and doesn't look away from him. “He's never asked anything of me. He's kept me safe. He took in my daughter and looks after her like she's his. Wish to god she was, too. Of course I love that man, Rick. Always will. But...” she takes a deep breath. “But not the same way you're gonna wind up loving him. And not the way he's gonna love you. That...that I can promise you.”

“Okay,” he breathes, taken aback by the ferocity of her speech, and trying to wrap his head around all of it. “Okay.”

“Hope it is, Rick,” Carol takes another deep breath, but smiles at the end of this one. “Because you're already so much farther gone for him than you think you are.”

_“Moonstruck, brother. You get gone for people way too fast.”_

“Yeah,” he sighs softly. “You probably aren't wrong about that.”

***

Daryl gets home from work while Rick and Carol are halfway through their second cups of coffee. Rick looks up when he walks through the door – hair a sticky mess from the heat, bare, tanned arms streaked with grime from his forearms up, like he'd washed away what he could but said the hell to the rest of it, black work pants half gray with dust and debris. He's beautiful, and Rick's stomach dives so hard at the sight of him that it's almost painful.

“Hey,” he swallows, trying not to let on how quick his heart is beating. “How was work?”

Daryl blinks dumbly, stopped dead right inside the door and staring at him like he can't believe he's there. Before Rick can worry too much about what that might mean, the younger man's face clears, and he smiles softly. “You're fucking Charger, Charger,” he shakes his head, and Rick grins, too, at the juxtaposition of the nickname and its source, “is bein' a tenacious lil' bastard.”

“Yup,” Rick nods easily. “That runs in the family.”

Daryl chuckles as he kicks off his work boots. “Lemme take a shower an' get changed, then we'an head out, a'ight?”

“Take your time,” Rick agrees easily. “Think I'm gonna go and check in on Carl.”

The detective pokes his head into Sophia's room to find the two kids spread out on her floor, pouring through what appears to be a mass quantity of comic books and...thicker, smaller, comic books that are bound like regular books.

“Graphic novels, dad,” Carl explains with an exasperated eye roll.

“Of course.” Rick agrees, only half-pretending to be serious, because while he doesn't get the distinction at all, it seems to be important to his son, so he pays attention. Same reason he's been watching a TV show about an alien-man who travels around time and space in the blue police box every other night for the last two weeks.

“Daryl's home?” Sophia asks him, and Rick's smiles at her as warmly as he can, making sure she knows that it's okay for them to talk, even when the other adults in her life aren't around. He hasn't been alone with Sophia since that day at A&A's, and while he's fairly certain nothing like what happened then would or could ever happen again, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't a little concerned all the same.

“Yeah,” he responds to her easily, “Gettin' cleaned up.” He can hear the shower running down the hall and reminds himself for about the sixth time that no, he _can't_ go in and join him. Because kids. And Carol. And inappropriateness. And he'd put styling gel in his hair and getting it wet would ruin all his efforts. And kids.

Sophia nods and looks thoughtful about something. Rick's just debating the pros and cons of asking her about it when Carol comes up behind him in the hall and announces that once Rick and Daryl leave, the three of them will be grilling dinner outside, so they better get downstairs now and pick what they want out of the freezer so Carol can get to dethawing it. The kids launch into a debate about hamburgers versus hotdogs, and start heading for the stairs.

Without warning, though, Sophia stops on the first step, letting Carl go in front of her but making Carol and Rick, who'd been a pace behind them, stop.

“What's wrong, Soph?” Carol asks gently, like maybe she can read something in the set of her daughter's shoulders that Rick can't.

The ten-year-old turns around and pushes past the both of them without saying a word. It's only when she passes the doorway for her own bedroom that Rick realizes he'd heard the shower shut off right about the time Sophie had stopped walking. He watches with curiosity as she pushes gently into a room at the end of the hall that Rick assumes must be Daryl's.

“Does she know?” Rick asks in a hushed voice, looking at Carol with what he hopes doesn't read like the wrong kind of panic. “That me and Daryl are...”

“I don't know, Rick,” Carol replies with a soft sigh, staring after her daughter, more concerned about her actions than Rick's fear. “I really don't know.”

***

Daryl comes downstairs about fifteen minutes later, Sophia in tow; the both of them smiling in a private sort of way that Rick recognizes well – secrets shared between father and child. For the first time since he's known him, seeing Daryl with Sophia like that makes Rick sad. Not because it's a sad moment by any stretch, but because all Daryl does when confronted about it is deny that he's had any real impact on that girl's life, thinks he's nothing but a roof, some warm meals, and protection against the outside world. His heart aches for Daryl then, because something in his past had created that sense of unworthiness.

Rick promises himself right then that no matter what ends up happening between them he'll never, _ever_ add to those insecurities.

“Hey, ya ready?” Daryl comes up next to where he's standing in the doorway of the kitchen and places a hand on the small of his back. It's gone almost as quick as it came, but it still makes Rick shiver minutely.

Casual touching. Him and Daryl are going to work on casual touching, too.

“Yeah.” He nods easily, and quickly says his goodbyes to his son. Daryl shares his own with Carol and Sophia, and then the two of them head out.

Daryl's wearing a nicer pair of jeans – they don't have any holes or grease stains, anyway – and a black long sleeved shirt that looks soft. Besides being hot as fuck – tugging around those overly broad shoulders something fierce and tapering at almost the same angle as his hipbones – the outfit really doesn't provide any clues about their destination for the evening, besides it's probably something casual, just like Rick had figured.

“Gonna take Carol's car.” Daryl tells him, leading him over to a silver sedan that looks well taken care of, if not a bit on the older side. “Was gonna take ya on the bike, but I didn't figure you for wantin' to ride bitch.”

As crude as Daryl's language is, Rick can't help but smile at the thought of being that close to the other man. Forced to hang on tight for his own well-being. Manufactured intimacy.

“Wouldn't mind.” He says casually.

Daryl smiles a little, too. “Maybe next time then.” He says. “To long'a ride for the bike anyways.”

“What about that Jeep?” Rick gestures towards the garage, where he'd noticed that particular vehicle sitting the first time he'd been here.

Daryl grimaces a little. “That thing wouldn't make it down the block, let alone where we're goin'.”

“You plan on tellin' me where exactly that is?” He asks as he slips into the passenger seat of the car and does up his seatbelt, relieved when he notes that Daryl fastens his, too.

“No.”

“No?” Rick repeats, and laughs. “Should I be worried?”

“Probably.” Daryl responds, so dry that the detective can't tell if it's a joke or not. They're on the road about five minutes when the younger man clears his throat and asks, “You're not afraid of heights, are you?”

Rick glances at him. He's got one hand on the top of the steering wheel, his right is resting on his thigh. He doesn't look nervous, but his fingers are clenching in tune with some invisible rhythm.

“No.” He responds, because he just can't think of anything to say other than the truth.

“Good,” the other man nods.

Rick takes a deep breath and decides that whatever happens tonight is going to be worth it. Daryl is so different than what Rick's used to, and all he wants to do is keep learning. No matter what comes of it.

“Havin' second thoughts, Charger?” His tone is light, but the question sounds real.

“Just the opposite, actually.” He reaches forward and takes the younger man's hand in his, stopping it's relentless clenching and causing a sharp glance in his direction. Rick's done it a handful of times now, initiate contact, but Daryl always seems just a little shocked that someone wants to touch him. He runs his thumb over Daryl's knuckles.

They're silent after that, a comfortable one that shifts between heavy and light, depending on which of them gets caught staring, and what song filters through on the radio. It's during Metallica's remake of 'Turn the Page' that Rick realizes they're heading into the city. He wants to ask, but he's also looking forward to being surprised. Plus, he likes this song; the way Daryl's fingertips tap along with it against Rick's palm tell him he's not the only one. He'd rather not interrupt it to ask questions.

Four songs later, they're slowed to almost a crawl on a busy Atlanta street that Rick doesn't quite recognize. There's a pawn shop, two liquor stores, and signs for a casino within view outside his window; all the storefronts are offset by cheery Christmas decorations that look more like a juxtaposition of mockery than anything else. “We going to a casino?” He asks, finally letting his curiosity get the better of him, because Daryl and downtowns don't mix.

The younger man snorts. “Maybe some other time, if ya want.” He shifts a little, and grips Rick's fingers. “Ya ever gone?”

“Not to the one out here,” Rick shares, “But I've been to Atlantic City a few times, and Vegas once.”

“Vegas is a trip.” Daryl snorts, and Rick's surprised that Daryl's ever been there, even though he probably shouldn't be. _“Spent a long time wandering around,”_ He'd said once. He might look and act like country is all he's ever known, but Daryl's probably seen more of this world than Rick himself has.

“Tell me.” Rick requests when Daryl doesn't continue on with a story.

The mechanic shifts his gaze over as they're stopped waiting for an arrow to turn left. He looks hesitant and amused. They've been holding hands this whole time, and Rick takes a moment now to fiddle with Daryl's index finger.

“First night I got there,” he starts, licking his lips and turning his eyes back to the road, but relaxing his hand to allow Rick to continue his light touches. “I won big at blackjack. Fuckin' big enough that they put me up in some penthouse or whatever the fuck hotel room. Kept sendin' up bottles of champagne and Crown Royal. Think they think if they get ya drunk enough you'll go back down and blow it all.”

Rick laughs, because no matter how hard he tries, he cannot picture Daryl Dixon in a penthouse Las Vegas suite. “Probably.”

“Got drunk anyway,” he continues. “Fuckin' wasted. Won another two grand at a slot machine an' spent the next three days doin' a lot'a shit that I ain't tellin' you 'bout right now.”

“Because I'm a cop?” Rick asks, amused. What happens in Vegas, after all.

“Nah, 'cause I wantchya to still like me leas' a little bit after tonight.”

“Don't think that'll be a problem.”

“You haven't seen where I'm takin' you yet.” Daryl reminds him.

They've migrated into a quieter portion of downtown, where most of the buildings are abandoned and only the occasional pedestrian passes on the street. Daryl turns down a tight alley with no signs indicating whether or not he's going the right direction, and when he finally turns out of it he abruptly parks the car in front of a brick wall to the right, leaving Rick just barely enough room to open his door.

_Well, this is different_ , the detective thinks, looking to Daryl for some indication of what's going on. The hunter is smirking at him. “See, now, I coulda taken you to some bar, or a restaurant, or gamblin', or maybe even ta a hotel, to fuck you right and proper,”

A flare of desire passes through Rick at the unexpected words; he lets himself feel it but tries not to get stuck on it.

“But I ain't playin' you, Rick.” The younger man takes a deep breath and meets his gaze squarely. “An' I wanted somethin' real tonight.”

Rick looks out Daryl's window and takes in their surroundings again; crumbling building fronts, small streets and sidewalks scattered with trash, two homeless people huddled together sleeping in one of the archways. He takes a deep breath and looks back at Daryl, at this man who's invaded every single aspect of his life and that Rick wants more of despite that. At this man that Rick is longing to know inside and out and everything in between. At this man that that Rick is praying will save him.

He tilts his head to the side and lets his expression soften. He reaches up, finally disconnecting their hands, and cups the side of Daryl's face, stomach jumping a little when the younger man leans into him and sighs.

“You're the most real thing in my life right now,” Rick tells him softly, smiling when Daryl's eyes widen slightly. “Whatever this place is...” he trails off and shakes his head, “I trust you.”

“Holy hell, Charger,” Daryl replies after a long beat, letting out a shaky breath as he does. “You tryin' to wreck me?”

Rick smirks a little, moving his hand to Daryl's thigh and squeezing it firmly. “Yes,” he breathes, feeling more confident than he has in fucking _years_. “Yeah. Is it working?”

Daryl lets his head fall back against the seat and closes his eyes. “You have no fuckin' idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love to hear what you thought, as always!!


	16. Angels Dressed in Cocaine White

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the feedback, guys :) Despite my initial uncertainties I wound up really liking this chapter. I hope you do, too!!

***

_Why ya keep me around?_  
When you could have anyone in this town  
Am I the best that you hoped for  
Or just the best that you’ve found?  
Well there’s no way to explain it  
But either way you know I’ll take it.  
Through the haze of the whiskey nights  
And the maze of the angels dressed in cocaine white  
I’m not tryin’ to make ya change, but lover, I know what I like  
First you play along, even though it’s wrong  
But then it starts feelin’ right. 

***

“Y'know, I don't have my gun on me.” Rick says after they get out of the car.

Daryl's popped the trunk and emerges from it after a few seconds with a backpack that looks like it's for camping, though obviously not filled to capacity.

“You afraid, Charger?”

Rick glances around the surrounding streets again and is almost positive the two hooded figures a few blocks down are exchanging drugs. He lets out a deep breath and turns back to Daryl. “Been in worse places than this, I suppose.”

“Atta boy,” Daryl grins widely and slaps him on the shoulder. “Let's go.”

They walk half a block before Daryl stops at the side of a building. Rick doesn't get the chance to ask a question before Daryl's moving a piece of plywood away from the door and standing aside, waiting.

“We're going in there?”

The building looks like an abandoned storefront – six stories, he counts, with more windows busted out than not.

“Go on,” The younger man ushers him forward. “Gotta put this back or someone might wander in.”

“What makes you think there's not already someone in there?” Rick questions, more curious than doubtful. “Seems like an ideal place for any number of illegal activities.”

“Nah,” Daryl shrugs easily. “Developers been comin' and goin' outta here for months. Locals know better than to set up in here.”

Every logical, police-academy trained part of his brain is hollering at him that this isn't safe, that it might be a trap, to back out now. But his instincts aren't in line with that logic, because he trusts Daryl and no amount of common sense is going to get him to turn away from this.

So, with a deep breath and a mental shrug, he walks through the doorway of an abandoned building in a profoundly unsafe block of downtown Atlanta.

_The things we do for love._

He doubles back on that thought so quick that it feels like mental whiplash.

He completely misses it when Daryl steps in behind him and replaces the plywood, doesn't react at all, in fact, until the younger man settles a hand between his shoulder blades. “Here,” he says softly, and Rick doesn't know what he means until he hears a click and suddenly there's a beam of light in front of them.

“Breaking and entering's a crime,” he says stupidly, because he gets stupid when he's in love.

Love.

 _“What about me?”_ He hears the whisper, and swears for a moment that he sees the flash of a white sundress in the shadows.

Daryl laughs, and the flutter in Rick's heart manages to chase everything else away. “To your right,” he says instead of responding. “There's a staircase behind that wall.”

The layout of the first floor is large, Rick notes as he moves tentatively across it, and mostly open. There's not much debris on the ground, considering.

“It ain't gonna give,” Daryl tells him assuredly once they reach the stairs, sensing Rick's next objection. “Told ya, developers been in an' outta here for months. Everything's secure.”

As they walk up the six flights of stairs – Daryl's hand still secure on his back and the flashlight illuminating each step before they take it – Rick asks, “What did this place used to be?”

“Gun and amo shop,” Daryl says, and the easy quality of his voice makes Rick think he'd been planning on telling a story tonight. He sounds different, when he's forced into talking a lot and when he wants to, the detective's noticed. “Called Grayson's, back in the day. Dan Grayson'd sell my brother guns and my daddy drugs. We used to drive out here and spend days in the city, my pa all tweaked out on blow and other shit he couldn't get back home. My brother'd find hookers and do his thing, get drugs from them. Claims to this day that it was a bad dose of Special K from a workin' lady named Trix that turned him batshit crazy.”

“Is he?”

“What?” Daryl asks, and sounds surprised – maybe at the calm of Rick's voice, the lack of judgment there.

“Your brother? Is he crazy?”

Sasha the profiler would rail on him for using that word – crazy – tell him it's not accurate, that, psychologically, there's a better way to explain behavior. But Rick's not so interested in clinically correct diagnoses these days.

“Crazier than most,” Daryl answers easily.

“But saner than some?” Rick guesses.

“He did alright by me.” The younger man declares, and it sounds final enough that Rick knows better than to question it.

“How often did you come out here?”

“Few times a year.” Daryl says. “See down there?” He stops where they are, on the top floor now, and points the flashlight to a collection of doors down a hallway, lined up like in an apartment building. All the floors, save the first two, have been like that. “Building was a bookstore 'fore the Grayson's bought it. All them rooms used to be filled with leftovers. Hundreds'a boxes of books, every type ya can think of. Learned more hiding out up here than I ever did in school or anywhere else. Used to stay up here for days, just readin'. Too young'ta do anythin' else, even if I were inclined.”

“How young?”

“You're gonna go gettin' upset if I answer that, Charger.” He says it lightly, but Rick thinks they both know how real it is.

They're facing each other now, the beam of the flashlight pointed towards the ground, but Rick's eyes have adjusted to the dim light well enough that he can read Daryl's expression in the dark.

“I thought you brought me here to tell me your secrets.”

Daryl inhales sharply. “Maybe some of them.” Is his only response, and even that sounds like a compromise.

“So tell me.” Rick takes a step closer and lets one of his hands rest lightly on Daryl's hip. “You're not scaring me away. Not now.” _Not now that I love you_. He shivers minutely just thinking the words.

“Don't really 'member the first time we came here,” Daryl answers. “Was a family tradition, fucked up one, long 'fore I was born.”

Rick clenches his jaw and tries not to react.

“This ain't nearly the worst place outta my past, Charger,” Daryl says firmly. “And I didn't bring you out here so you could go gettin' that look on your face like you gotta save me. That got done a long time ago.”

It's stupid, considering the context, but he's a little regretful then that he _hadn't_ been there to save Daryl back when he'd needed it most.

“I just-”

But Daryl silences him with a kiss, one that starts off chaste but quickly progresses into something deep and almost urgent. After countless seconds – minutes, hours, an eternity – they pull away from each other.

“C'mon,” Daryl whispers, nearly breathless. “Ain't here to stare at a rat-infested hallway.”

“Rats?” Rick asks, alarmed.

“ _That_ you're afraid of?” Daryl sounds amused.

“Shuddup.”

***  
***

There's a large window at the end of the hall on the sixth floor where you can access a fire escape and climb up onto the roof. The sections of it from the third floor down are too rusted to risk using – taped off by the fire department already for safety – or Daryl might have just done that, and skipped the literal trip down memory lane.

He'd come out here tonight with every intention of telling Rick at least this much about his past, and he doesn't regret that decision. It's just that, giving away information about himself, even if it's to someone he trusts wholly, it'll always feel like creating vulnerability. _Scared_ , if he's feeling particularly honest – it always makes him scared.

He's got to admit, though, he's surprised at how well Rick had taken that part of his story. He's a smart guy, and a detective to boot; he's probably put together that Daryl's home life hadn't been all sunshine and roses, maybe guessed that drugs and alcohol had played a part in that. Hearing it outright's a whole different animal, though. Takes away all the hiding spots.

But Rick had accepted it in stride. Of course, he doesn't know the half of it, really; definitely doesn't know the worst of it. But _the worst of it_ 's a story Daryl never plans on telling, so he supposes that tonight is all that really matters.

Once they reach the rooftop, Daryl instructs Rick to stay put at the base of large chimney while he goes around and turns on the industrial construction lights. He leaves half of them off, so they don't attract attention, but the remaining three are more than enough.

When he turns around Rick isn't where he'd left him. Instead, he's standing at the very edge of the rooftop, facing the city. Daryl's breath leaves him at the sight of Rick standing there like that – literally gets punched out of him like he's just been hit.

The white of the other man’s shirt reflects in the city lights and moonlight both, his curly hair like a darkened halo, swaying ever so slightly in the wind, and seeing him like that….it changes something. 

_The maze of the angels dressed in cocaine white._

He doesn’t recall the rest of the song or where he’d heard it – Maggie’s bar maybe, or some TV show that Sophia likes to watch when Carol lets her – but it hardly matters. The lyric washes through him like a wave, leaving him almost peaceful on the other side of it. 

Daryl never thought his life would be a song, but right now it feels like maybe, just maybe, he could wind up somewhere like that after all. Because Rick Grimes is making him want for all sorts of impossible things. Things that don’t feel all that impossible anymore. 

He must make a sound, because Rick turns slightly then to glance back at him. He looks truly otherworldly. Ethereal. Radiant.

 _I'm going to remember this forever_.

“What?” The detective asks innocently, head slightly tilted to the side with no clue that he'd just become immortal.

“Strong wind'll blow you right over that ledge.” Daryl repeats the words that Merle had said to him once, the two of them in this very same spot so many years ago. His voice catches on them. If there's one thing in this world he doesn't doubt, it's his brother's love and loyalty. What he feels for Rick isn't anything like what he feels for Merle, except in all the ways that it is – unbreakable, absolute. Permanent.

Two different faces of forever.

“The view up here is incredible.” Rick comments, taking a step back from the ledge and turning so more of his body is facing Daryl. “You came up here a lot when you were a kid, didn't you?”

“It was quiet.”

“Think it'd be loud, actually,” Rick counters curiously. “Especially during the day, with traffic and everything.”

Daryl smiles. “Yeah,” he agrees. “But a quiet kind of loud.”

“When you told me that you'd traveled a lot,” Rick says after a few moments, sounding thoughtful, “I couldn't really picture it. You're so...”

“Backwoods country?” Daryl gets close enough to wrap his arms around the older man, lets his chin rest on Rick's shoulder so he can keep staring out over the city.

“Authentically southern.” Rick corrects, and Daryl chuckles. Rick moves his own arms so they're all tangled up together, one in the same. “I couldn't imagine you in a city like Vegas. Or even Atlanta, really.”

“Spent six months in New York once.”

“Yeah, I can see that now.” Rick reveals. “Think you could probably fit in anywhere, actually. Except maybe the Hampton's or something. You know how to adapt.”

Daryl hums. He's heard people say that about him before – that he can slink in anywhere and hide in the background, go unnoticed. It's never sounded like a compliment before. “I know how to hunt.” Daryl says. “Fittin' in's the same as bein' able able to track prey.” He bites Rick's earlobe, and the other man shudders.

“More than that.” Rick presses, slightly breathless, fingers clinging tight to Daryl's forearms. “Some people call it surviving, but surviving isn't living. You...you're the kinda guy who'd be alright no matter what, who'd thrive even if everything ended. Hell, you'd win The Hunger Games.”

“The fuck's that?” Daryl asks quietly, more interested in Rick's _even if everything ended_.

“Fiction,” Rick answers, mostly distractedly. “Ask Sophia about it.”

“Okay.” He agrees. And then, “What ended?”

“What?” Rick tries to pull away but Daryl holds on tight.

“Shh,” he says, so softly that Rick might not even hear it, but he settles down all the same. “What ended tha' you don't think you're doin' more than survivin' around?”

Rick takes a deep breath, and then another. Several over the course of a few minutes, until his shoulders aren't as tense. “My wife died.”

“I know that.” Daryl talks soft because they're so close, and because this is a soft moment.

“My wife died one year after my best friend died, and if it weren't for Carl I don't even know if I'd be here right now.” Rick tenses again, like he's expecting Daryl to get angry.

“That ain't weakness, Rick.” The older man shivers and Daryl holds on to him that much tighter. “Nobody picks up just fine after somethin' like that happens. You're here. You're livin'. You're doin' a helluva lot more than just surviving.”

“How do you know that?”

Daryl doesn't even have to think about it. “'Cause you're _here_.” He repeats with emphasis. “With me, up on this roof. Talkin' to me, jus' like I told ya to.”

Rick's laugh sounds genuine, if not small and a little watery.

“And 'cause I've seen givin' up. After my ma died, the way my dad was? That's what givin' up, what _just survin'_ , looks like.” Daryl tells him. “And I don't know a lot of shit, Charger, but I do know that you ain't nearly mean or drunk enough to fit that bill.”

“I was.” Rick breathes the words, barely a whisper. Daryl stays silent and still, waiting. “Not drunk. I didn't...didn't want to do that to them. Knew better, I guess. Too many years on the job. But after...after Shane died, I...I don't even know what I was, Daryl. Didn't know who I was. You ever walk into a room and just not see anything? Get stuff in your head that's too big to breathe around?” He swallows thickly. “I know it was a year, but sometimes I think about it and it...there was a whole year when I wasn't even there. Not really.”

“You didn't hurt them.” To Daryl this will always be the most important thing, and he says the words now not because he knows they're true, but because they have to be for this to keep going.

“No,” Rick agrees, and Daryl tries not to let the other man feel his relief. “But it's why Carl hates me. Shane was his godfather. I used to think that they'd both choose him over me if given the chance. Hell maybe that's part of it. Why I checked out after he was gone.”

“That don't make you a monster.” Daryl says firmly, pulling back just enough so that when he cups the side of Rick's neck and presses his thumb to his jaw firmly Rick can turn to meet his gaze. The depth of agony and relief he sees there stuns him. Rick's been holding onto this for far too long.

“I killed him.”

Daryl barely hears the words before he's countering them. “I don't believe that.”

“We'd set a trap for these guys we'd been chasing,” Rick readjusts his body so they're facing. He crosses his arms over his chest, removing himself from Daryl's hold, but the mechanic doesn't let his own hands drop from his shoulders. “We were partners on the force.” He adds for clarification. Daryl had already put that together but doesn't interrupt. “The guys we were tryin’ to run down, their car hit the stakes we put out. When their tires blew the whole car flipped and went off into a field. We were all stunned for a few seconds, but none of them died, and it didn't take long for them to crawl out and start shooting.”

Daryl bites his lip and stays quiet. He's never liked cops much, but if this is the kind of shit Rick faces while doing his job he might have just come up with a whole other reason to hate the profession.

“Everyone was shooting at everybody else. We thought we had them all down, but one of 'em got back up. Shot at me. Hit my vest. Scared the shit out of Shane. He shot him. Killed him, I found out later. Then he came running over, made sure I was alright. I told him not to tell Lori. Knew how she'd get. We were almost laughing when the last guy crawled out of the car.”

Daryl has a sick feeling that he knows exactly where this is going.

“I didn't see him. I should have. God, I know I should have.” Rick lets out a shuddering breath. “I've told this story so many times. To the sheriff, Shane's parents, internal affairs,” he snorts bitterly. “Lori.” Daryl squeezes Rick's shoulder tightly. “I've heard that it's not my fault, and I've heard that it was. Shane chose to push me out of the way, I know that. But I also know that he wouldn't have been there at all if it weren't for me.”

Daryl doesn't ask the question, but he does duck his head until Rick's gaze meets his and then purposely raises an eyebrow.

“We'd been friends all our lives. Literally. Met when we were four, maybe five years old. Was my idea for us to be cops in the first place.” Rick tells him like that explains it.

“You didn't force a grown man to spend his whole life doin' somethin' he didn't wanna do.” The mechanic says slowly, trying to untangle the logic. “It don't work like that.”

“Nah, Shane liked it. Liked carrying a gun and getting to protect people. Scare 'em, too.” Rick half-smiles, remembering. “Power drunk, but never abusive.”

Daryl highly doubts that, actually, but seeing as the man's dead already, and that he'd got that way saving Rick's life, he's not going to ever press the issue. “But you put the idea in his head so it's all your fault?”

“It's my fault we were there.” Rick takes a deep breath and steadies his gaze. “He took a bullet for me.”

“Hey,” Daryl moves both his hands to the side of Rick's face, gets close enough that their noses nearly touch. “You didn't kill Shane.”

Rick inhales sharply when Daryl says Shane's name. He uncrosses his arms and they fall limply at his sides, like he's giving up.

“You didn't.” The younger man repeats. Sometimes grownups are just like kids, in that the only way to get them to really hear something is to say it over and over again.

“I watched him die.” Rick says, and Daryl grimaces. That's the sort of thing he'd never wish on anybody. “The last thing he said to me was, _I hope you and God forgive me_.” Rick's laugh doesn't sound sane. “I never figured it out; what I was supposed to be forgiving him for. What he could've ever done to me that those'd be his last words.”

Daryl has a few ideas – incoherency stemming from massive blood loss being one of them – but he's sure that Rick's heard them all before. For some reason he's stuck on the idea that those words had meant something. And, hell, maybe they had. Maybe they'd been the most important thing Shane had ever said to him, maybe they'd been a message. Rick's never gonna know, not for sure, and there's nothing Daryl can do or say that's going to change that.

Instead of trying, he mutters, “C'mere,” and tugs Rick into an embrace. The older man resists for a moment, but soon enough he's sagging into Daryl's arms. He doesn't cry, but he clings to the back of Daryl's shirt, buries his head in his shoulder, and stays there for a long time.

Words have never been Daryl's greatest strength, but in this moment – holding the man he's falling in love with on a roof in Atlanta at night, secrets lying at their feet like shrapnel – words, even if he were a master of them, would have failed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics are from the song “Kicking my Heels” by Tyler Hilton.


	17. In the Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s coming up on 1:30 in the morning and I’m sitting here sipping an energy drink thinking “well oh boy, work tomorrow is suck massive balls. But what should I do now that I’m fully awake? I know! Get out the rest of this chapter before writer’s block consumes me alive.” I guess, all in all, it’s a good thing I took a 4 hour nap earlier. 
> 
> I actually had more to this chapter originally, but decided pretty much just now that it read too long and kind of cluttery so I broke it all up and rewrote a bunch of stuff. (Still a pretty long chapter, though, so I hope that makes up for the wait :)
> 
> Warning in this one for the (non-graphic) discussion of past childhood abuse.

***

_In the darkness a day will come_  
Another light for you to lean upon  
But until then maybe your heart  
Can rest in mine.

***

Daryl doesn't believe that there's any such thing as car that can't be fixed.

A '99 Mariner with a cracked head gasket could have lived to see another day, but the cost of the repair would’ve been triple the value of the car. Or that Volvo with less than ten thousand miles on it – he would have been able to figure out the computer codes on that one, if he'd gone out and bought the tool (even though it would have cost more than his best gun), but it wouldn't have been right to charge a man for something like that when the dealer's warranty had still been valid. Or that '89 Lesabre that was so rusted they couldn't even lift it; Dale had sent that woman to a body shop because they don't do body work at A&A's, even though Daryl himself technically could have. All of those cars he _could_ have fixed, it just hadn't made sense to.

The 2007 Jeep Laredo from a few years back, though...that thing had been a whole other story.

It had come in for an engine diagnostic, and Daryl had found and fixed the problem without too much fuss – fried spark plug. Done and out in two hours, thanks for your business please come again. Thing is, the man _had_ come again, only it had been less than a month later and with the same issue. When Daryl had looked at it that second time he'd found that it really was the _exact_ same diagnosis. So he'd gone searching for an underlying problem. And he hadn't found a goddamn thing. It had bugged him beyond belief, and he'd wound up replacing all the spark plugs and every coil spring without even telling Dale – which had pissed his boss off to no end because he wasn't able to charge the guy for it.

Daryl had known he hadn't done anything but put a Band-Aid on a bullet hole, and ultimately hadn't been surprised at all when the guy had returned a third time. Same fucking thing – the spark plug was just a melted mess of metal. Daryl had wasted four days then pulling apart all the wiring, stopping just shy of removing the whole engine. He'd spent hours on the computer, searching through service bulletins on Mitchell; he'd even called a Jeep dealership and talked to their master tech. Daryl hates computers, and dealerships, and talking. But he'd done it, done it all, because most of all he hates giving up. But in the end none of it had helped. No one could tell him why this one spark plug in this one vehicle kept self-destructing.

Eventually Dale had sent to guy somewhere else, regretfully offering apologies and a full refund. About six months after that the customer had come back into the shop with a different vehicle, and even though Daryl's usually loathe to participate in a conversation, let alone start one, he'd wandered into the waiting area while Aaron was doing the oil change on the guy's brand new Patriot and asked, “Whatever happened to that other one you had?”

The guy had laughed and shaken his head, in that way people do when they've reached a point of being amused instead of frustrated, because sometimes there's just nothing else left.

“Y'know I've got no clue. Took it to four other shops and two dealers and no one could figure out what was making it do that.” He'd shrugged. “Eventually my wife made me trade it in. We were spending more money trying to figure it out than the thing was worth.”

Daryl's not exactly proud of himself for what he'd done next, but it's a character flaw of his: he's absolute shit at letting things go. He'd asked the guy where he'd traded it in at, gone down to the place (a dealership, and fucking hell he _really_ hates dealers), and bought it.

He's been tinkering with that piece of shit '07 Laredo on and off for over a year now. He still can't figure out what the fuck is wrong with it, and he's sunk more money into trying to figure it out than any sane person would approve of, but it's a matter of principal at this point. And maybe obsession a little, too.

But he can't bring himself to give up on it. His father had given up on most everything he'd ever started – including being married and raising his kids. His mother had given up on _literately_ everything, her whole life in that fire that Daryl doesn’t believe for one second she hadn’t started on purpose. 

Merle had been the one to teach him persistence. Granted, his brother's goals usually aren't that admirable, but you have to respect a guy who drives all the way to Mexico just to find a dealer who'd ripped him off and kick his ass. Merle's tunnel vision was what had saved Daryl's life when he was sixteen and locked in an almost literal hell. In his book, the pros will always outweigh the cons when it comes to being singularly, even obsessively, focused on a thing.

Daryl's not always like that, and sometimes his mamma and his daddy both shine through in his actions more than he'd like to admit. He'd gotten used to running away from his problems, to running away from everything for a while there, but once he'd settled down he'd done it for good. Probably why he's built up his life the way he has. Why he has friends. Why he hasn't kicked Carol and Sophia out of his house and never will.

Why he's standing on a rooftop in downtown Atlanta with a grieving cop in his arms. A weaker man might back down from a relationship that comes with so much obvious baggage. But a weaker man wouldn't have survived Daryl's life. It's his strength that had gotten him here, to this night and Rick Grimes. To being almost in love and mostly unafraid. And it's their strength combined that's going to see Rick through the rest of it. Daryl's set on it, and nothing in this world or any other is going to change that.

***

“I'm sorry,” Rick pulls back after a while, rubbing his hands over his face aggressively. “I didn't mean to drudge all this up tonight.”

Daryl misses having the other man in his arms more than he's willing to admit. “'S alright.” He shrugs. “What nights are for. S'what I'm for.”

“I don't wanna do that.” Rick shakes his head, biting his lip like he's angry. “I don't wanna lay all that stuff on you.”

“Why not?”

The detective's eyes narrow; slightly suspicious, but mostly confused. “Because I want us to be more than...more than...”

“Look, Charger,” Daryl cuts him off, “I know the last few years ain't been a picnic for you. Know a buncha stuff happened that fucked you up. Don't expect you to be peach about it all the time, a'right? I a'int about to run off just ‘cause you need a fuckin' hug.”

Rick snorts. “That was beautiful. You should work for Hallmark.” His tone is dry, but he sags around the shoulders the way people do when they're relieved. 

Daryl smirks. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.” He rolls his eyes. “Now, how’d ya feel about climbin’ up the side’a that chimney stack?” He gestures to the tower he’d left his camping bag at the base of. “Get a good view up there.”

Rick’s staring at him now, his expression softer than before, and lighter, too. Like sharing his guilt over Shane had alleviated some of its weight. “Why are you doing this?”

“’Cause I like hangin’ around abandoned buildings.” 

Rick smiles. “You know what I mean. Why are you doing _this_? With me?” 

“’Cause I like hangin’ around you.” He shrugs and glances at the ground, finding it suddenly difficult to hold Rick’s gaze. 

He hears the older man take a deep breath, and glances back up in just enough time to see something like acceptance wash over him. “Okay.” He nods once, firmly. “Okay.” He takes another breath and the moment shifts out of intensity. 

Daryl ushers him over to the ladder, waving him on so he can climb the rungs after him. Practically, this is because he worries about Rick getting dizzy, or maybe not being as alright with heights as he’d claimed. Selfishly, he’s enjoying the view. 

Right when the older man gets a foot over the ledge, the hunter reaches out and palms his ass. He licks his lips suggestively when Rick shoots a quick glance over his shoulder. “They oughtta let you wear them jeans to work.” He says. “Might step foot in a police station for a sight like that.” 

Rick laughs and does nothing to discourage his playfulness. A few minutes later, they’re both standing on the flat base of the building’s chimney stack – long since out of use, the surface provides a nice spot free of gravel to toss out the blanket he’d stashed in his camping bag. 

“You got a picnic in there?” Rick questions, looking pleasantly surprised. 

Daryl feels himself flushing a little. “I got a bottle’a Jack and a couple tacos from that Mexican place off Highland Street.” 

“I love their salsa.” 

“Good.” Daryl pulls a container of it out of the bag. Along with some chips, tacos, and the alcohol. Rick continues staring at him. “What?” 

“Just thinkin’…this isn’t what I was expecting at all when you brought me out tonight, not even kinda. But I don’t think anything else would’ve felt as right as this place.” He smiles. “I really like it up here.” 

Daryl ducks his gaze to hide his grin. “Well, enjoy it now, Charger.” He says, trying to maintain a gruffness that he just doesn’t feel anymore. “Won’t be able to come back here like this again after tonight.” 

Rick settles down on the blanket, pops the lid on the salsa, and starts munching on a chip while Daryl breaks the seal on the bottle of Jack. “Why’s that?” The older man asks, taking the alcohol from Daryl when it’s offered. They drink straight from the bottle, because Daryl never bothers much with glasses or even utensils if he can help it. 

“Right after New Year’s they’re gonna start renovatin’ this place.” The hunter explains. “Turn it in’ta a place for kids. Y’know, the ones that live ‘round here anyways.” 

Rick studies him thoughtfully. “You mean like a youth center?” 

Daryl shrugs. “Might call it that.” 

“You mean the place you spent years coming so your dad and brother could get drugs is getting turned into an anti-drug safe haven for kids who are living the same kinda life you did?” Rick is still staring at him, and the bluntness of those words has Daryl scowling and snatching the Jack away from Rick. He takes a long swig. 

“You goin’ somewhere with this, Ace?” He asks, because Rick’s tone is far too knowing for his own good. 

“And I bet those rooms upstairs are gonna be bedrooms, right?” Rick asks, smiling in the face of Daryl’s moodiness, like he’s not perturbed by it at all. “So some’a them kids have a safe place to sleep. Am I right?” 

“I ain’t designin’ the thing.” Daryl grouches, but doesn’t deny the assumptions. 

“Yeah,” Rick grabs the bottle of liquor out of his hand in a fluid movement that Daryl has to admit is impressive. “And I bet you didn’t have anything to do with comin’ up with the idea for it, either.” 

“Mighta made a suggestion.” Daryl admits. He busies himself unwrapping a taco and shoving half the thing in his mouth so he doesn’t have to talk for a minute. 

Rick patiently dips a few more nachos in salsa, watching Daryl as he eats, eyes crinkling in the corners with amusement and fondness. The hunter decides that he likes seeing those things on Rick a helluva lot more than grief and guilt. 

“Michonne’s gotta fuck buddy who does a lotta shit like this,” Daryl finally caves, because he doesn’t think he’ll ever regret making Rick happy. “Volunteer…y’know, whatever, for the city. Couple years ago I told ‘em Dan Grayson died and this place was up for sale. There’s a lot a kids ‘round here that don’t have a better place to go. Kids like that wind up like me.” He shrugs. “Mike did the rest of it.” 

“It sounds like a good project,” Rick says thoughtfully. “And, y’know, for what it’s worth, I don’t think you turned out all that bad.”

“Yeah, well, you missed my _fuck the whole world_ phase.” Daryl snorts. “Ya think your kid’s bad, ya shoulda seen me ‘fore I calmed down some. Woulda arrested me without blinkin’ twice.”

Rick hums thoughtfully, and Daryl appreciates it when the other man doesn’t immediately deny the accusation. “But you did, didn’t you?” He presses. “Calm down, I mean.” 

“Kinda had to,” Daryl shrugs, fiddling with the food in front of him but not reaching for the bottle of Jack. He thinks about the time Eric had sucker punched him and how that moment, Eric’s unexpected and out of character aggression, had changed the course of Daryl’s life. “Was either that or take off again, and I kinda liked the shit I had goin’ for me by then.”

“So you met Michonne and started fighting.” Rick guesses. At Daryl’s raised eyebrow, the detective explains, “Carol told me Michonne runs a gym, that she’s learning self-defense there. Figured that’s how you knew her.”

“Yeah,” Daryl sighs. “Needed another way to know how’ta kill people.”

Rick laughs, because they both know it’s more than that, but Rick doesn’t need to hear him say it and Daryl appreciates that. “You’re gonna spend time down here once it’s all up and running, aren’t ya?” 

Daryl shakes his head but doesn’t verbally deny the amused accusation. 

“Teach kids how’ta work on cars, right?” Rick goes on. “Help them the way no one helped you.” 

“My brother helped me.” Daryl snaps, suddenly serious. 

Rick takes the shift in stride. “Alright then.” He agrees. “Help them the way only one other person helped you.” 

Daryl deflates. There’s something about Rick; the way the detective handles himself in a conversation that makes Daryl want to keep on talking. He doesn’t get angry or frustrated with Rick, the way he often does with others. It’s a strange thing, feeling like he’s known a man longer than he has, feeling like they’ve got this sort of connection that, in reality, they haven’t really had the proper time to grow. 

“Don’t start goin’ on about how me bringin’ you here was some big fuckin’…” he trails off, and sighs heavily. “I ain’t always good at this sorta shit, Charger.” 

“When did you decide you wanted to take me here?” The other man asks, setting aside his container of nachos and brushing his hands together to get rid of the crumbs. 

Daryl ducks his gaze and bites his lip. “That matter?” 

“I dunno.” Rick answers, sounding honest. “Tell me the answer and we’ll see.” 

Daryl takes a deep breath and decides to go for broke, “Poker night.” He says. “Right around the time your drunk ass tried to grope me at the bar.” 

Rick’s eyes go wide, and then narrow to little slits in a telling display of concentration. 

“What?” Daryl asks, a little put off by the silence. 

“Nothin’,” Rick shakes his head, but he’s smiling now like he knows something Daryl doesn’t. It’s the same look Carol gets when she talks to him about Rick. The same look Aaron and Eric share with each other when he gripes about people thinking Sophia is his daughter. The same look Dale and Hershel wear when Daryl tires to deny that he’s had any real impact on other people’s lives. 

Daryl Dixon might not be the smartest guy in the world, but he ain’t a fool. 

“What?” He asks again. And he really means for it to come out harsh, maybe even wants to start a fight with it. But the question falls with resignation and just the barest traces of hope. Rick does that to him. Funny thing is, he ain’t even mad about it.

The detective smiles and shakes his head. “Just glad is all.” He finally says. “That we gotta chance to come out here before the construction started.” 

“Yeah, alright.” He agrees. It happens again, almost like magic, that more is known between their words than was actually spoken with them. Rick smiles just so and Daryl understands everything he isn’t saying; stuff about promises and horses and picnics on a roof. 

“When’s this youth center of yours supposed to be up and running?” Rick asks, diverting the moment away from the sudden silent intensity. “’Cause I wouldn’t mind comin’ out here with ya every once in a while. Prove to those kids that not all cops are out to get ‘em.”

“Ain’t _my_ anything.” Daryl grouches. 

“Your idea.” Rick counters with a grin. 

“You keep talkin’ shit and I’m tossin’ the rest’a that salsa over the ledge.” Daryl threatens, his own eyes narrowing in a mocking threat.

“Try it, darlin’, and you’ll lose a hand.” Rick declares, protectively sweeping the abandoned container closer to him. 

Daryl laughs at seeing this playful side of Rick, and because the other man had just called him _darlin’_ and he doesn’t want to slap him for it. Mostly Daryl laughs because he’s happy. And he damn well knows that when that feeling comes along he’s got to ride it for a long as possible, because god only knows how quick it’s gonna get ripped out from under him. 

***  
***

“Gotta be quiet,” Daryl whispers, holding his keys together so they don’t jangle. “Floors squeak, and you ain’t exactly light on your feet.”

“That a jab at my hunting abilities?” Rick questions in a whisper. It’s past midnight, and the last thing either of them wants to do is wake Carol or the kids. 

“Yer damn straight.” Daryl says firmly, pushing through the front door slowly. 

“Not that straight,” Rick mutters, and bites his lip to avoid laughing when Daryl glances at him with an expression that reads like _are you fucking kidding me with that?_ even in the dark. 

“Just gotta make it upstairs, Charger,” Daryl tells him, voice lower than a whisper. “Walls are thick. Nobody’ll hear nothin’ once we’re in the bedroom.” 

“Oh, is that where we’re goin’?” Rick asks, playfully obtuse. “Thought you were gonna take me to a hotel to fuck me right and proper.”

Daryl makes a noise low in his throat, and Rick shivers at hearing it. “Was gonna fuck ya right and proper up on that roof,” the hunter responds without missing a beat, “but after that bird took a dump on us I didn’t figure it for the most romantic setting no more.” 

“Yeah,” Rick sighs as they start a slow march up the stairs. He purposely mimics Daryl’s footsteps so as to avoid those squeaky spots. “’Sides, it was gettin’ kinda cold. That never does any good in these sorts of situations.” 

“It’s sixty fuckin’ degrees in December.” Daryl argues. “We coulda managed jus’ fine.” 

“Yeah, well, we’re here now.” Rick pokes him in the shoulder and smiles even though Daryl’s a step in front of him and can’t see it. “And you said the walls are thick, right?” 

He’s not afraid of having sex in the same house that his son is sleeping in. He’d been married for over a decade; he understands the reality of domesticity. He’s more nervous about having sex in the same house that Carol is in. The kids won’t know what they’d been doing, she will. 

“The walls are thick,” Daryl repeats dutifully. “Now, shush up.” 

They tiptoe down the hall one bated breath at a time until they finally reach the very end where Daryl’s bedroom is. Silently they enter the room, Rick only breathing evenly again once the door clicks shut behind them. 

Daryl is on him so fast he barely has time to blink. Not that blinking would have accomplished much, as the room is as dark as the hallway before it, but he’s so used to that by now that it hardly even matters. Daryl’s arms around him and lips on his make it matter even less. 

“I didn’t plan on this happenin’ tonight,” Daryl gasps when they finally pull apart. “And it don’t have to, y’know?”

Rick shakes his head, but he’s grinning. “You planned out takin’ me to a place that meant that much to you, show off that secret romantic streak I’m sure you’ll be denying later, but you didn’t think you were gonna get laid?”

Daryl laughs. “Stop bein’ a dick,” he says with absolutely no heat. “I’m sayin’ we don’t gotta do nothin’ you don’t wanna do.” 

Rick’s grin turns into a soft smile. “We’re not doing anything I don’t wanna do.” He assures. “You don’t gotta worry about me, Daryl. I’m where I wanna be.” He pauses to let the other man absorb those words. “’Sides, it ain’t like we haven’t already seen each other naked.” 

“Yeah, about that,” Daryl takes a long, steady breath and rests his forehead against Rick’s. “Last time we were in a bedroom together, ya didn’t exactly see everything.” 

The detective thinks back on that afternoon in his apartment, alone with Daryl. “I think I did.” He counters, slightly unsure. He leaves his hands resting on the hunter’s biceps. 

“Nah, ya didn’t.” He licks his lips and catches Rick’s gaze. “My daddy was a mean drunk, Charger. And I got…I got scars that you didn’t see last time.” 

Like a flash Rick recalls the way Daryl had hesitated taking his shirt off that day; how he’d leaned back against the pillows too quickly and then not let Rick touch him once he’d flipped them around. He remembers the other man tugging his shirt back on moments after they’d finished. He hadn’t thought too much of it at the time, maybe subconsciously chalked it up to Daryl’s insecurities, but now it makes sense. 

“Oh,” he says, and is a little surprised when Daryl just stays where he is – doesn’t pull away or get defensive as he waits for Rick to process this. “You know that doesn’t matter to me, right?” 

“I know.” Daryl sounds calm enough, but also patient, like he’s waiting for something more. 

“I mean, it matters because I…because you matter,” he closes his eyes for a beat and then opens them again. Daryl’s still waiting. “And I wish you’d never gone through that.” He’s not surprised to hear that Daryl’s father had been physically abusive. He’s suspected as much for a while now. But he knows laying it out like this has to be hard for the younger man. “But it doesn’t change anything for _me_. Or us.” 

“Good,” Daryl leans down and kisses him hard. “Normally jus’ tell people to ignore it, y’know? Or leave my shirt on. But you…you’re…”

“You’re not playin’ me.” Rick repeats Daryl’s words from earlier that evening, and they still leave him slightly breathless. “I get it.” He pauses. “You’re not scaring me away.” 

Daryl smiles a little at the second set of repeated words. “Glad we got that all cleared up.” He says. “Gawd, we’re a couple dumb sons a bitches, aren’t we? Gotta hear the same shit over and over ‘fore we get it.” 

Rick laughs, marveling in Daryl’s ability to break the tension no matter what the situation. “How many times I gotta tell you that I want you to fuck me tonight before you take that hint?” 

“I don’t recall actually hearing you say that yet, Charger,” Daryl teases, but he presses their bodies together so tight that Rick can feel the straining outline of his erection through both sets of their jeans. 

“Well, I do,” he repeats, breathless this time, hands grasping at Daryl’s hips. 

“Tell me again.” The younger man demands, slowly backing them towards the bed. On his way there he flicks on the lamp sitting on the nightstand. The light, even as dim as it is, makes the detective blink stupidly for a moment. 

He’d gotten so used to the dark that he’d nearly forgotten how much he wants to _see_. See Daryl’s expressions, his body, the way he holds himself in these moments. He’d realized tonight that he loves this man, and all he wants to do now is find even more to love. 

“I want you to fuck me.” Rick gasps as Daryl lies him out on the mattress and crawls up over him, shifting slightly so the hunter can kiss and lick and bite all the way down his neck. “I wanna feel you so bad. Haven’t been like this with anybody in so long,” he shudders when Daryl’s teeth scrape against his collar bone. “Wanna feel you for days.” 

“Well, shucks, Ace,” Daryl pulls back just enough to grin at him. “All ya had to do was ask.”

Rick groans when Daryl rocks their hips together, his hands scrambling for purchase over the mechanic’s back. “You gonna spend all night teasing me, or are you gonna fuck me?” 

“I can’t do both?” Daryl pouts, but Rick knows it isn’t real, just Daryl trying to ease him into this experience. 

“You can do anything you want if you get naked in the next twenty seconds.” Rick counters, just as playfully. 

“You gonna time me?” But he pulls back a little, balancing the weight of his upper body on his arms. Rick misses having Daryl over him, but this angle causes their hips to slot together even more firmly. 

“Wanna race?” 

Daryl is off him in a heartbeat – like the direct challenge is something too powerful for him to ignore. He’s on his feet with his pants halfway down his thighs before Rick can even blink. Not one to be outdone in a display of blatant arousal, however, the detective quickly sits up and starts shedding his own clothes. 

Daryl wins the get-naked race by seconds – but only, Rick is sure, because he cares less about the fabric of his clothing actually staying stitched together at the seams. “I’m gonna be disappointed as hell if you ripped that shirt.” He says as he stretches out fully across the bed, lacing his hands together behind his head on the pillow. 

“Why?” The younger man snorts, “Ya wanna borrow it?” 

“No, because you look hot in it.” Rick counters with a wicked grin. 

“I’ll buy another one.” Daryl declares, eyes sweeping over him like he can’t get his fill of looking. Rick knows objectively that he’s got a decent body, but watching Daryl watch him, so obviously aroused by the mere sight of him, makes him feel spectacularly good about himself. “Hell, I’ll buy ‘em in bulk if it gets you naked in my bed.” 

Rick hums, moving one hand out from behind his head to trail it slowly down his own chest, stopping just shy of wrapping it around his aching erection. “Mix it up a little, too, yeah?” He suggests, “Maybe spend some time in the blue-green color spectrum.” 

“Y’know you ain’t here to dress me, right?” Daryl quirks an eyebrow at him. 

Rick’s barely even listening to what’s coming out of his mouth; he just knows that if he keeps talking then this night will keep going – and he’s so happy here that he doesn’t want it to end. “But I like you in blue,” he argues, though most of his attention is now fixed on where Daryl’s hand is stroking loosely at his dick. 

The other man is still standing while Rick is on the bed, but when the detective starts mimicking Daryl’s movements on his own body, it feels like they’re nearly as close as they had been before. 

“And I’ve jerked off three times thinkin’ about you in them red boxers.” Daryl throws back, causing Rick to groan at both the mental image of Daryl jacking off and the knowledge that the hunter had seen him in his underwear before the first time they’d gotten together. 

“Was wondering how I got out of my pants that night.” 

“I like you better without pants.” Daryl says simply. “Think you should stop wearin’ ‘em all together.”

“That an official request?” Rick banters back while simultaneously rolling his hips into the pressure of his hand. He never knew he was this good at multitasking. 

“I’ll put it in writing if ya want.” He offers. 

Rick laughs a little breathlessly. “I’ll take it under advisement if you get over here and start touching me.” 

Daryl stays where he is for another few seconds, watching serenely, tongue poking out slightly in concentration, but then he pounces – landing on the bed next to him with a mighty huff that makes Rick laugh. 

“God,” the detective sighs once Daryl’s above him again, hands leaving his own skin in favor of his lover’s. “I forgot how much fun this could be.” 

“Ain’t barely done nothin’ yet, Charger,” the younger man counters. “Gets a helluva lot more fun than this.” 

“It better,” Rick snarks, and then, just a little more serious, “but that’s not what I meant.” 

“I know,” Daryl admits softly, running one hand through Rick’s hair and tugging on it softly. The detective groans and arches his hips. His hands stray down Daryl’s back, feeling but not lingering on the rough, raised skin there. He’s a little taken aback by the quantity of scars his fingers have to graze over before they find something smooth again, but he doesn’t let that show in his expression. Daryl is perfect, even if Daryl’s father hadn’t been. 

The hunter kisses him again then, a slow press of lips that gradually becomes a meeting of tongues, until their mouths are moving in the same steady motion of their rocking bodies. Rick is so hard he’s leaking, and when he just can’t take the stimulation anymore he pulls out of the kiss and whimpers so pathetically that he’ll deny having ever made such a sound. 

His body rocks viciously into the younger man’s, every nerve ending he’s got craving more of this, more of them, more of everything. He turns his head to the side and accidently brushes his lips against the staining bulge of Daryl’s bicep. He takes a short breath and plants his lips there on purpose. 

“If I’m not allowed to wear pants anymore,” he says, chest rising and falling in a rapid rhythm, “Then I never wanna see you in sleeves ever again.” 

The hunter’s eyes are hooded with desire, pupils blown so wide his eyes look nearly black. “I could live with that.” 

“Mhm, c’mon,” Rick shifts around, spreading his legs so Daryl can fit more comfortably between them. “Want you inside me.” 

Daryl huffs, “Ya never heard of foreplay?” He teases even as he leans over Rick to open the bedside table and paw through its contents. 

“You tryin’ to tell me this whole night wasn’t foreplay?” Rick counters, shifting again when Daryl pulls out a bottle of lube. 

“Fair point, Charger,” he snorts, and then pops the top. Rick’s pavlovian response to that sound is to lift one of his legs and hook it around the younger man’s slender hip. 

“Might be easier for you if you turned around,” Daryl mentions, concern in his gaze. “I know it’s been a long while since you done this.” 

Rick’s shaking his head before Daryl’s even done talking. “Don’t care. I wanna see you. I…I have to.” 

He can’t explain it better than that, just knows – with something deep in his gut that’s never once lied to him – that he wouldn’t be able to handle not facing Daryl during this. 

“Okay,” his lover breathes, and the shaky quality of his voice clues Rick into the fact that maybe he’s not the only one who’s a little nervous about this part. “I got ya.” 

_All of me._ Rick adds mentally. 

The first brush of Daryl’s finger against his hole causes him to flinch. He’s not sure why. The lube isn’t cold – Daryl having thoroughly warmed it in his hand before pressing against him, but still his body jerks. He takes a deep, calming breath. 

“I’m okay,” he assures when the other man’s eyes find his. “I’m ready.”

Daryl leaves his hand where it is and leans down again to kiss him. The solid weight of their bodies together makes something in him relax. He nods when Daryl pulls back and looks at him. 

The first finger entering him feels as strange as he remembers it feeling the first time he’d ever done this – years ago with Freshman R.A. – but also not the same at all because this isn’t his first time, and the more they do the more he remembers how much he used to love this. 

It also isn’t the same because this is Daryl, and Daryl’s not the same as anything. 

“Breathe, sweetheart,” the younger man whispers, and Rick lets loose a shuddering breath that’s part choked laughter, because he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding on so tight. 

He adjusts to the feeling of Daryl’s finger inside of him, clenching around it while the other man holds still. Something twinges at the very edge of his subconscious, but he can’t place it. After a few steady beats he nods again. “Another one.” 

Daryl obeys steadily, gently pulling back a little and then pushing in with two fingers. Rick groans at the added stretch. “Feels good,” he says, because Daryl’s looking a little worried. 

The hunter scissors the digits, stretching Rick open, feeling him. And then, when he finally crooks his fingers just so and brushes against that bundle of nerves deep inside of him, the detective gasps. Tears well up behind his eyes. 

Daryl’s been watching him with that same trained precision he uses on everything else, and notices the moment Rick looks like he can’t handle it anymore. Almost immediately he tries to pull out, but the older man whines and reaches down quick, stopping Daryl with one fluid motion. “Stay,” he deamnds. “I want this.” 

“Rick,” his lover rasps his name, rough around the edges, worried and wrecked. 

Daryl’s the only person in his life who’s ever had a nickname for him. Not even Shane had ever used anything other than his given name (except _brother_ , but that was something a lot different than the way Daryl calls him _Charger_ and _Ace_ ). He’d gotten used to it from Daryl so quick, though, that he hardly even thinks about it. Until, in moments like this, when _Rick_ falls from his lover’s lips in a declaration powerful enough to turn the tides. 

“I’m okay,” he says again, wondering if he’ll ever be able to stop saying that and just _be_ it, without hesitation. He reaches forward to brush some of Daryl’s hair out of his eyes, distracting himself from his own flaws. “Just…it’s a lot, y’know?” He’s talking about more than the physical acts of their bodies. 

For Rick, this is more than just sex. More than falling in love, even. This is overcoming a powerful, if not irrational, sense of profound guilt. Daryl may not understand all the reasons he feels it, but he knows it’s there without having to be told. 

“We don’t have’ta do this.” The younger man repeats his earlier words. “Or you could fuck me, if ya wanted.” 

Rick smiles at the offer, feeling more of the weight lift away from him by the second. “I’ll take you up on that someday, darlin’,” he promises, loving the way the younger man ducks his gaze almost bashfully at the words. “But not tonight.” 

It takes a few more minutes of deep breathing and running his hands up and down every part of Daryl he can reach, but eventually Rick feels secure enough to rock his hips into the pressure of Daryl’s fingers once more. 

Just like that the heat between them reignites, and there’s nothing on Rick’s mind anymore except the man above him and inside of him. 

Daryl finds his prostate again easily, rubbing it with a gentle pressure that makes Rick toss his head back and clench his hands tightly – one above him on the headboard, the other clinging too tight to Daryl’s shoulder. 

“Keep that up and I’m gonna come,” he manages to gasp between moans. He hasn’t so much as played with his ass in years, not even while masturbating. 

“Maybe I wantchya to,” Daryl presses so firmly into the spot that Rick’s cock twitches and his entire lower body leaves the bed. Right when he’s sure he won’t be able to control himself, Daryl pulls back. “Or maybe I wanna be inside ya first.” 

“Well, pick one.” Rick snaps, desperately canting his hips, trying to get some of that pressure back. 

Daryl ducks his head and bites Rick’s shoulder. “Don’t get smart with me, Charger.” 

Rick remembers Daryl saying those exact same words to him weeks ago in a nonsexual setting. He remembers fantasizing about hearing them just like this. He grabs the headboard with his other hand, too. 

Defiantly, he raises his chin. “Make me.” 

The message couldn’t have been clearer if he’d spelled it out. Daryl studies him for a few beats, reading his expression just to make sure, but once he is he growls low in the back of his throat and reaches up; uses his free hand to pin Rick’s wrists above him in a tight hold while the fingers inside of him press hard against his prostate. Finally, he ducks again and latches onto Rick’s neck with his teeth, sucking hard at the juncture of his shoulder. 

Rick gasps violently, thrusts his hips once, and comes all over himself. 

He’s dazed for long enough that he doesn’t even notice when Daryl lets go of his hands and pulls his fingers out of his ass. He comes back to himself, panting and content, while the younger man’s thumb is running over the darkened, claimed piece of skin on his shoulder. 

“You’ll be able’ta cover that up easy.” Daryl’s saying, even as he bends to kiss it. “Wanted to put one right here,” he gently flicks the underside of Rick’s jaw, “but I ain’t about to be responsible for yer wearin’ a turtleneck.” 

“Don’t own one, anyway,” The detective says absently. Then, “You made me come.” 

“Ya begged me to.” 

“I wanted you to fuck me.” He almost pouts, but can’t quite manage it because it had been a spectacular orgasm, even if he hadn’t gotten everything he’d wanted. 

Daryl responds to him with a slow rock of his own hips, the hunter’s still hard cock pushing against his thigh. “Gonna fuck you.” He says then, with the same easy tone that anybody might use when stating a well-known fact. 

Excitement flares through him, though he shouldn’t be surprised that Daryl’s still planning on giving him everything he needs. 

The younger man allows him a few more minutes to even his breathing and get his bearings back before he starts in on what is clearly going to be round two: he slides down Rick’s body just far enough to slowly, purposely, lick the come off his stomach. Rick shivers. Daryl meets his gaze and grins. “You taste like coffee.” 

“Jizz cannot taste like coffee.” The detective argues back immediately. 

Daryl’s grin gets wider. He uses one of the fingers that hadn’t been in his ass earlier to swipe up some of the spunk in question and then reaches forward and nudges at Rick’s lips. “Try it.”

Rick licks at the digit without pause. He can take or leave the come-tasting thing, honestly, but the way Daryl’s eyes go wide and dark at the sight and feel of Rick’s lips around his finger is addicting. He purposely lets his own eyes fall half-closed and increases his suction, mimicking the way he’d give a blowjob. 

“You’re playin’ fuckin’ dirty, Charger,” Daryl growls. 

Rick pulls away from his hand with an obscene little _pop_. “You started it.” He runs his tongue over his lips in a decidedly slow manner. “And, no, definitely doesn’t taste like coffee.” 

Daryl kisses him hard, teeth clinking and tongues clashing in a mess of rushed desire. He pulls back just as suddenly as he’d lunged forward, holding onto Rick’s bottom lip with his teeth in a way that makes the detective whimper pathetically. 

Daryl spends a while after that focused solely on Rick; kissing, biting, touching, rubbing, stroking, or licking every single part of his body. Grazing touches to his oversensitive cock countered with hard tugs on his nipples; teasing brushes over the tops of his thighs followed by a series of firm kisses all the way up and down his inner arms; the harsh rake of nails down his sides right after he cleans the rest of the come off his stomach with his tongue. 

Rick doesn’t know how much time passes. Doesn’t care. All he knows if that being the center of Daryl’s attention like this is so powerful that it’s nearly overwhelming, and combined with everything else, he gets hard again in what feels like no time at all. 

His legs are splayed open, relaxed this time more so than before. Ready to take whatever the other man offers. Daryl starts with two fingers and quickly works his way up to three, moving them around inside of him with a purposeful force. 

“Ya ready?” Daryl’s breathing is harsh, and he’s watching Rick desperately. The detective thinks about teasing him, about making him wait; but he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to wait one more second for this. 

“Yeah,” he nods readily, and cants his hips up, letting himself fall wide open for the younger man. “Please, Daryl, c’mon.”

“I gottchya,” the mechanic mutters, leaning over his whole body for a second to grab a condom from the bedside drawer. Rick feels a flare of disappointment when he sees it, but he knows it’s the smartest thing. Disappointment is forgotten in the wake of absolute arousal as he watches Daryl roll it on and then slick himself with lube. 

Rick feels loose and pliant from Daryl’s fingers and his earlier orgasm. He’s so relaxed that he barely feels the stretch until Daryl is about halfway inside of him. 

“Aw, fuck,” he gasps as Daryl finishes the slide into him. His muscles jump and contract around the younger man, and he throws his head back at the feeling. “God, it’s been…I didn’t…fuck, you feel so good.”

Above him, Daryl is smiling softly. He cups the side of Rick’s face and brushes a thumb over the curve of his jaw. His eyes shine with a million unsaid words. Thing is, Rick doesn’t need to hear any of them to know exactly what he means. 

He shifts ever so slightly and a blinding pleasure consumes him. He groans and does it again. “Move,” he demands, though it comes out more like a plea. “Make me come again.” 

“Whatever ya want, Charger.” Daryl responds, his own voice hitching on the words. “Anything you want.”

Rick hears _forever_ like a whisper in the wind.

And the rest of the night is just the two of them, making promises in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song lyrics from ‘In the Darkness’ by Christian Kane, who is one of my very favorite artists. In fact, Kane RPF was my second biggest fandom of all time. Just a little fun fact for any fellow Kaniacs who might be reading this.


	18. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who’s excited for Sunday?!?!? 
> 
> I really wanted to get this chapter out before Season 6b premieres and I have to be sedated. Because I have a feeling I’ll definitely have to be sedated. :DDDD

***

Rick wakes the next morning so perfectly content that he barely moves as his eyes blink open. It takes him a moment to realize he’s not in his own bed, and from that there’s a slight moment of panic, but it simmers the second his thoughts catch up with themselves.

Daryl is moving around the room silently, picking up discarded clothes from the night before. By the time Rick’s vision adjusts, the younger man has sat down on the very edge of the bed, his back facing Rick. 

It’s the first time the detective sees the scars, and it’s not fair that this moment happens with him right on the cusp of sleep like this, because his defenses are down and all he wants to do at the sight of that roadmap of hate on his lover’s flesh is wrap Daryl in a hug and never let go. 

There’s a tattoo on his shoulder that looks like two wrestling demons. Or maybe a demon and an angel. Hard to tell in the shadows. But even the skin those images are inked into isn’t free of whip marks and burns, and their presence there makes the creatures seem nearly alive, Daryl’s movements causing their bodies to contort in a parody of dance. 

In a split second decision that he’s going to blame on not being fully awake later, Rick sits up while Daryl’s still facing away from him, and scoots in right behind him, running his hands gently over the valley of his lover’s shoulder blades. 

“Hey, Charger,” the younger man whispers, voice slightly horse but affectionate. He turns his head so he can meet Rick’s lips in a kiss. 

The detective obliges him happily, but stays behind the younger man, gently running his hands all up and down the skin there, looking at it like he hadn’t gotten a chance to the night before. He doesn’t say anything – knows that any words he could utter here would sound trite and immature even if he meant them with everything he is. So instead, he just touches; runs his fingertips up and down the raised flesh, the divots of burns, and the few thin white lines in between that look like the sharp blade of a knife. 

He leans forward and kisses a shoulder. Then the other. Then a deep welt right under the blade there. Daryl shudders at the contact. Rick hadn’t realized until then how still the other man had gone, frozen under the weight of Rick’s eyes and fingers. He trails his hands down the marred flesh again until they settle on the jut of his hips. He rests his forehead against the bare skin on the back of the younger man’s neck. “Why are you awake?”

Daryl shivers and his body sags even more, like he’s slowly getting comfortable with Rick touching him this way. The detective smiles a little, because he might have questions later, and Daryl may even want to tell him more someday, but for now he knows that this moment is perfect.

“Gotta go’ta the shop,” he whispers, running a hand up and down Rick’s calf muscle. “Work today.” 

Rick knows that Saturday is a busy day for him at Dale’s, and probably when he makes a large portion of his money. Somehow in the haze of euphoria last night, though, he’d managed to forget that Saturday follows Friday. 

He tries not to pout, but Daryl might feel his frown against his skin, because he chuckles ever so softly. “Stay here ‘til the boy wakes up, at least,” he insists. “Then I’ll see ya…” he trails off, because they haven’t made plans to spend time together after this yet. Daryl huffs abruptly. “Whaddya y’all doin’ Christmas?” 

Rick blinks stupidly at nothing in the dark. “I dunno.” 

“Come over here.” Daryl says it in a rush. Before Rick can respond he adds, “I mean, you’re welcome to. It was Carol’s idea. Aaron and Eric are, too. I killed a deer.” 

Rick laughs at the rapid influx of information. If he didn’t know any better he’d think Daryl was nervous. 

After a moment, however, he actually processes the words, the invitation. Truth is, he hadn’t had anymore planned for Christmas day than cooking something simple, watching Carl open his gifts, and then maybe catching a few holiday movies on TV until they both fell asleep.

Lori’s parents had initially invited them down to spend the holiday with them (had done so on Thanksgiving, also), but Lori’s parents had retired to Florida years ago and, truthfully, just hadn’t been all that close to their daughter. Loved her, of course, and dotted on Carl when they saw him, but the Tucker’s are more religious than Rick’s strictly comfortable around – deep Southern roots that don’t leave a lot of room for accepting new ideas. 

He’d never liked Carl spending much time with them, worried about his son picking up on their prejudices. He’d told them both times they’d invited them that the traveling was too much to handle right now, with his new job and all. They’d accepted the excuse with muted disappointment. They love Carl, and Rick understands that he’s all they have left of their daughter, but there’s a distance between all of them that’s a lot more than the miles separating Georgia and Florida. 

Now that he’s being presented with an option that actually sounds appealing, however, he can’t help but consider it. Yes, of course he wants to spend Christmas – his first Christmas without his wife – with Daryl and his hodgepodge little family. He thinks of the tree downstairs and the decorations, the cheer that doesn’t feel forced or store bought. 

God, he can barely remember last Christmas. His first Christmas without Shane. What had Lori done to make that alright for Carl? Had she even managed it? He really doesn’t remember. And it feels so wrong to him that his son has to suffer two holidays in a row overshadowed by grief. Especially now that Rick himself is working on overcoming his loss, and is so happy with Daryl. It makes him feel spectacularly guilty. 

“You can say no.” Daryl says, when Rick stays quiet a few seconds too long. “I’d get that.” 

“I don’t wanna say no.” He replies honestly. “I just don’t know if I can say yes.” He takes a deep breath. “Because of Carl.” 

“Okay,” Daryl says softly. For all his roughness, this man accepts disappointment with an ease that’s heartbreaking. 

“It’s just…our first Christmas without Lori and I don’t want to…” the sentence pitters out, because he’s not even sure what he doesn’t want anymore. “I’ll talk to him.” 

“It’s okay, Rick.” Daryl insists, gently squeezing his thigh. “I get it.” 

The detective’s gut clenches the way it always does when Daryl says his name like that. 

“Hey,” he says softly. “I’ll tell Carl that I want to be here. He’ll understand that.”

“Will he?” Daryl questions, and Rick wonders if he’s talking about more than the holiday. If thoughts about coming out, disclosing their relationship to the kids, have already started to consume him. 

Last night notwithstanding, Daryl isn’t always the easiest person to get a read on, when it comes to emotions. 

Rick decides to play it safe. He tells the truth. “Maybe.” He takes a deep breath. “Things’ve gotten better with him but we’re still…I’m not sure. This is Christmas, though. I doubt he wants to spend it alone any more than I do.” 

Daryl doesn’t respond to that, and Rick’s left wondering how many years in a row Daryl had gone without celebrating the holiday properly. He knows the younger man had moved back to Georgia about four years ago, and had probably started getting sucked into other people’s celebrations early on – Dale’s, if nothing else, because somehow Rick can’t picture that man sitting idly by while someone like Daryl stays home alone during the holiday. Then Aaron’s, maybe. And now he has Carol and Sophia to think about. 

Rick’s left marveling sometimes about how much his life has changed in just the last two years, but he knows he’s not the only one who’s constantly readjusting. He’s only known a Daryl Dixon who has people in his life, friends and family, but it wasn’t that long ago that this man was as completely alone as Rick had felt after Lori and Shane died. And Daryl had been that way a helluva lot longer. 

“I’ll talk to him.” He repeats, more firmly this time. “I want to be here.” 

“Good,” Daryl declares. The word comes out happy and firm – hope and a decision all rolled into one. “Kinda like havin’ you around.” 

Rick smiles against the skin of Daryl’s neck, forgetting for the moment that everything about this man isn’t absolutely perfect. 

***

Carl is silent on the car ride home. And that has Rick’s instincts – the cop’s and the father’s alike – prickling something fierce, because Carl is never quiet after a day at Daryl’s. It’s always “Sophia this” and “Carol that” and “let’s talk about how many times I got to shoot my BB gun” and “Will Daryl let me ride his motorcycle someday, dad, please?” 

But when they leave that Saturday – late in the morning, and not before Carol feeds them a hearty breakfast – Carl doesn’t say a word. He shrinks into himself in a way that Rick hasn’t seen since their first few weeks in the city, and it’s making him nervous. 

As soon as they get home, Carl darts into his room and closes the door. And as much as Rick might like to leave him alone, to avoid this confrontation, he knows he can’t do that. He’s spent too long avoiding stuff with his kid and it’s got to stop. 

With a deep, resolved breath, he knocks lightly on his son’s door. Carl doesn’t respond, but Rick pushes through anyway. Carl is standing at the edge of his bed taking clothes and comic books out of his backpack.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says gently. “I think we oughta talk.” 

“Sure.” Carl responds, and the pitch of his voice – cold and detached – immediately sends Rick from apprehensive to downright terrified. Eleven-year-old kids aren’t supposed to be able to sound like that. Especially not his. 

“I guess you heard me’an Carol talking earlier, huh?” He says gently, weaving his way around Carl’s ice cold demeanor. He sits on his son’s bed, putting himself in a position to face him. “About us maybe going over there for Christmas in a couple days.” 

“Uh-huh.” Carl gives nothing away, and still won’t look at his father. 

“I just want you to know, that’s not a decision I’ve made. And it’s not one I will without us talking about it first.” 

“Okay.” The boy deadpans, sounding more like a war refugee than a child. 

The cold, tight knot of fear in his gut expands. 

“I just think it might be nice,” he goes on, “Spending the holidays with other people.”

“You mean with a family.” Carl finally meets his eyes, and the depth of hurt Rick sees there, reflected back in his son’s – in Lori’s – chocolate brown eyes, shakes him to the core. 

“You and me are a family, Carl.” Rick reminds him gently. “But, yeah. Carol and Sophia are, too, and you might like –”

“And Daryl.” His son interrupts. 

“What?” 

“Carol and Sophia and _Daryl_ ,” Carl snaps, anger finally bubbling up around that façade of perfectly calm. “They’re the family, right?” 

“In a manner of speaking,” Rick swallows, because this is getting way too close to the one thing he hadn’t been prepared to handle yet. 

“You’re a liar.” Carl bites, raising his voice noticeably. 

Rick’s openly startled. “Carl –” 

“You’re a liar!” His son repeats, and there’s no doubt this time that it’s a scream. “You don’t want us to be a family. You want to be a family with them. With _Daryl_.”

Rick’s heart starts beating in his throat. “Carl…”

“I know you’re sleeping with him.” 

Rick is too shocked by the words to respond coherently. “I…how do you…”

“I got up to go to the bathroom last night and I saw you.” Carl snarls, and Rick remembers the moment now. The moment that must have given them away. Around three in the morning when he’d gotten up to take a leak, half asleep and wearing one of Daryl’s ratty old t-shirts. He’d been afraid of running into Carol in the hall. He’d been so sure that she was the only one who might figure out what he and Daryl had been doing. 

“And then I asked Sophia this morning and she already _knew_ ,” his son goes on, and Rick stays so still he might not even be breathing anymore. “She knew that you and Daryl…and I felt like an idiot, because my dad’s not _gay_. Except you are, aren’t you? Aren’t you?” 

“I’m not gay.” Rick says, trying to stay calm. 

“Yeah _right_.” Carl snorts angrily, bitterly. Crossing his arms and looking at Rick like he’s on trial. 

“I loved your mom so much, Carl.” Rick says, because if nothing else that’s the truth, and his son needs to hear it. “But she’s gone now, and as much as that hurts me, I don’t want to be alone for the rest of my life.” 

“So you start dating a _dude_?” 

“ _Hey_.” Rick snaps, and it’s with more authority than he’s directed at his son in a damn long while. Too long. Because Carl’s eyes go wide at the outburst – shocked and little afraid – and then immediately narrow, defiant. “You don’t get to talk to me like that, Carl.” 

“But you and Daryl –”

“Yeah, me and Daryl.” Rick is the one interrupting this time. Feeling like a father for the first time in well over a year. It scares him, but maybe that’s a good thing. “And that’s something you’re going to have to deal with. We can talk about it, when you’re ready, but you _will not_ disrespect me. Or Daryl. Not because of this. Do you understand me?” 

“But you are sleeping with him, right?” His son’s expression is almost desperately pleading now. 

“We’re in a relationship, yes.” He says. He hadn’t thought he’d be ready to admit that out loud to anybody for a while yet. Funny thing about kids, though. They’re game changers when they’re born, and then every day after that, too. 

“But you can’t be.” 

“Why not, Carl?” Rick tries to reason, because his son is old enough that he should be able to understand. “I know it might be a little surprising for you, but sometimes…sometimes people can be attracted to men _and_ women. And that’s okay.”

“I get what bisexuality is, dad.” Carl rolls his eyes, and even in this moment, strung tight with too many emotions, that reaction is just so perfectly _juvenile_ that it makes him relax a little. “I’m not an idiot. Shane explained that to me when I was, like, seven.” 

Rick’s heart stutters painfully. “He did?” 

“Yeah, probably because he knew you were and he wanted me to be okay with it someday or something.” Carl’s still looking at him like he’s the one out of his depth. Hell, maybe he is. 

“But you’re not okay with it.” He doesn’t mean for it to come out like a question, but at this point it really just is. 

“I’m not okay with…” Carl trails off. He directs his gaze at the other side of the room and starts blinking rapidly. “You were supposed to be with _mom_.” His son’s voice cracks on the word. Rick’s heart just breaks. 

“Carl…” 

“It’s not fair that you loved her, and that I loved, and that she’s just _gone_ now.” Carl whispers, trying and failing to speak clearly around the sobs that are welling up. “And you’re gonna move on, and fall in love with Daryl, and I _like_ him, dad. I like having him around, but if he stays, and you love him, then mom really is just _gone_.” Carl sniffs, and Rick watches as few tears fall down his cheeks. “And I…I don’t want her to be.” 

“Carl,” Rick says, and has to blink away his own tears. “Come here, kiddo.” He doesn’t wait for his son to respond, just reaches out and tugs his boy against him, wrapping him up in a tight hug. “Your mom is never gonna be gone, not really.” He says into Carl’s hair. “She’ll always be with you.” 

“That’s the bullshit they say on TV shows and in movies to make everything better.” His son mutters, but he doesn’t sound angry and he doesn’t pull away. “But it’s a lie, because she _is_ gone. She’d dead. I’m never gonna see her again. Or talk to her. The other day I had to look at a picture just to remember something, and it hasn’t even been a year.”

Rick would be a lying son of a bitch if he said hearing that didn’t _hurt_. 

“You’re right.” He agrees solemnly. “You’re right, son. There’s nothing anybody can say that’ll ever make this better.” As much as he’s wanted to shield Carl from this, he knows now that he can’t. 

Carl doesn’t respond to the words; just clings tightly to his father and cries. Wails violently in a way that Rick hasn’t seen him do since the night Shane had died. He’d cried when he’d found out about Lori. He’d cried at the funeral. He’d cried every night for weeks before Rick had decided to move them to Atlanta, but it hadn’t been like _this_ – the powerful, wracking sobs of the truly bereft. 

Rick doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t even know if there’s anything _to_ say. What to do, however, is actually pretty simple. He holds his son close to him and won’t let go until he feels steady enough to handle the world on his own two feet again

***

“Thanks for calling A and A’s, how can I help you?” 

The voice is distinctly more female than Rick had been expecting, and it catches him off guard. “Uh, yeah. Hi.” He clears his throat. “I was looking to talk to Daryl. He around?” 

“I’m sorry, sir, Daryl’s tied up at the moment,” the impossibly perky, professional voice responds, and it’s only after a few seconds of scratching his head that Rick remembers there’s a girl who works at Dale’s part-time. Maggie’s little sister. Beth, he thinks. “Is there a message I could take for you?” 

“Yeah, just, uh, just tell him that Rick called, and really needs to talk to him.” He responds, hoping it doesn’t come out too desperate. 

“I will. Does he have your phone number already?” 

Rick snorts. “Yeah, he does.” 

“Great, then I’ll pass this along to him.” She assures him brightly. “Have a great day, Rick.” 

“Yeah,” the detective dead-pans. “You, too.” 

With a heavy sigh he lays his phone on the kitchen table. He’d tried Daryl’s cell first, of course, but it’s common to not get an immediate response there. The shop can be loud, and Daryl leaves his phone on his tool box most of the time so it doesn’t distract him. 

It’s been a couple hours since Carl’s breakdown, and Rick’s still having a hard time wrapping his head around everything that’s happened, everything that’s changed, in just the last day. He’d gone from a single father dating another man for the first time in over a decade, to a guy who’s fallen in love for the third, and hopefully final, time in his life. He’d gone from considering when might be the best time to tell his son about this major, life-changing event to being told _by_ his son that everyone seems to already know. 

Enough people in his life, anyway. Abraham Ford, Carol and Sophia, probably Glenn – because now that he thinks about it, he’s not that subtle and the younger man had more than likely picked up on his lack of pronoun use and made an assumption. Daryl’s probably out of the closet enough that _his_ friends had deduced the nature of their relationship – Maggie, Aaron, Michonne…hell, even Dale. 

And Carl. Carl had called him out on his relationship so hard that Rick feels like he’s got whiplash. He hadn’t been expecting his son to figure it out on his own – though he’s not sure why, because Carl’s always been a smart kid. Way too smart for his own good sometimes. – and he really, _really_ hadn’t been expecting the revelation that Shane had explained bisexuality to him so long ago. 

And now he’s just sitting here, at his kitchen table, waiting for a phone call from Daryl while Carl sleeps off the emotional upheaval of realizing that his father is moving on with his life. And Rick can’t help the guilt he feels any more than he can control the affection he has for Daryl. 

He’d loved his wife; he’d loved Lori so much…but in the last few years of his marriage he’d already been thinking about moving on. He knew he’d never leave her, but he also wasn’t blind. Their marriage had been crumbling. Held together only by their mutual desire to do right by their son and the attachment that comes from living a life together for so many years. 

He knew he’d never leave her, but he’d been waiting for her to leave him. And then Shane had died and she’d – 

His thoughts are cut short by the sound of his cell phone. He smiles when he hears it even before he looks at the screen, because he always does. Carl had set his ringtone to the Breaking Bad theme song, and Rick wouldn’t change it even if he could figure out how, because every time he hears it he’s reminded of a good day that he and Carl had had. Few and far between as those good days are, he tries to hold on to every single one of them. 

“Hey,” he answers, cringing when his voice comes out raspy. “How’s work?”

“I’m tryin’ to do a fuel pump on an ’07 Mustang,” Daryl responds. “Guy doesn’t get that eight hours of labor actually means eight hours of labor.” He pauses. “What’s goin’ on with you?” 

Rick thinks about making small talk first, about leading up to this moment with something other than blunt facts. But, Daryl isn’t like most people, and he appreciates getting straight to the heart of a matter. 

So he blurts, “Carl knows about us,” and then takes a deep breath. “He said Sophia does, too.” 

Daryl’s quiet for a few long seconds. Rick hears sounds in the background – the phone ringing, that distinctive whirl of a tool removing lug nuts, and a car horn honking a few times in a row. These are noises that he now associates with Daryl, and hearing them calms him a little even over the phone. 

“Had a feeling Sophia might,” the hunter says carefully. “We decided early on to tell her I was, y’know, never gonna be interested in her mama that way. Figured it was the best for her, so she wouldn’t go an’ get her hopes up.” 

Rick feels like a selfish bastard for having never considered that. “Makes sense.” He says now. 

“And kids talk, Charger.” Daryl goes on. “Was worried they’d catch on ‘fore you were ready.” 

The mechanic’s words from this morning make sense now, Rick realizes. He hadn’t been subtly pressing Rick to tell Carl about their relationship – he’d been trying to help Rick control the inevitable. He just wishes Daryl had actually _said_ as much to him. Then again, this might have happened faster than anybody could have predicted. 

“Wasn’t that.” He explains, picking at piece of snagged wood on the table. “Carl saw me last night. Got up to go to the bathroom same time I did, I guess. Saw me go back to your room. Figured it out.” 

“Smart kid.” Daryl snorts, but it’s not without a little pride. 

“Yeah,” he sighs. “He didn’t take it too well, though.” 

“Charger…” Daryl trails off like he doesn’t know what to say. Probably doesn’t, Rick figures. Daryl’s apparently always been upfront with Sophia about his sexuality. He’s a stronger man than Rick.

“It was more than just us bein’ together,” he says. And then he explains Carl’s meltdown, sharing everything that had happened between him and his son in the few hours since he’d left Daryl’s. 

When he’s finished talking, Daryl stay quiet. Rick remembers what the younger man had said to him once about not liking to have conversations over the phone, being nervous when he’s not able to read expressions. He feels guilty, because he probably should have waited until the next time they saw each other to talk about this. But he hadn’t wanted to wait. He’d wanted to share this with Daryl as soon as it’d happened. Hell, he wishes Daryl had _been here_ when it’d happened. 

He’s so gone for the other man that it nearly scares him. 

“It kills me that Shane prepared my son for this better than I did.” Rick adds. “We leaned on him a lot. Lori and I did, when we were having problems. He half-lived at Shane’s for a while, when we were going to marriage counseling. I just didn’t realize how much he really did.”

“He was your best friend, Charger.” Daryl says softly. 

“It’s probably better this way,” Rick sighs, “That Carl know about us, I mean. And I think he’ll be okay with it eventually. He said he likes you.” 

“That’s ‘cause I told him I’d teach ‘im how’ta ride my bike someday.” 

“You did, huh?” Rick grins, more amused than anything else. 

“Yeah,” The younger man admits, sounding only marginally sheepish. “Didn’t tell ‘em which day, though. Figure I could put it off ‘til he’s twenty if ya want.” 

Rick has a flash of him and Daryl together when Carl is twenty; the two of them living together in Daryl’s house, Rick coming home every day to his lover tinkering with a car or practicing martial arts, them going downtown to Daryl’s youth center on the weekends, helping kids lead lives better than the ones Daryl and Sophia had been dealt. Learning everything about each other one day at a time. 

Rick’s mom used to say that he was the relationship type. It drove his dad crazy, but she was right: Rick’s always been monogamous by nature. 

Rick thinks back to the night before, the easy conversation they’d shared up on that roof. 

_I went to college in Ohio,”_ Rick had shared. They’d been discussing all the places Daryl had lived before he’d settled back in Georgia for good. 

_“No shit.” Daryl hums thoughtfully. “Where at?”_

_“Case Western.” Rick shrugs like it’s no big deal, but Daryl whistles low._

_“That ain’t bad for a Southern boy.”_

_Rick smiles and pats Daryl’s knee. “Nah, suppose not.” He agrees, secretly pleased that Daryl knows of his alma mater. “Where did you live for the longest? Other than Georgia, obviously?”_

_“Missouri.” He responds without having to think about it. “Was there for over two years.” He stops talking all of a sudden, stops like he’d hit a brick wall. And Rick can sense the change in the other man, just from being this close to him. Daryl doesn’t retract from him, exactly, but he does go noticeably still, like he’s afraid of what Rick’s next question might be._

_But, as far as the detective is concerned, they’ve both done enough sharing for one night – at least, enough of the kind that comes with an emotional fallout. Rick doesn’t want Daryl afraid of opening up to him, and knows from past experience that the best way to ensure that is to not treat one personal reveal like a gateway to more._

“Sharing is a critical part of any relationship experience, of course; but you are not entitled to your partner’s emotions.”

_Dr. Morris had always said stuff like that to him and Lori when they’d been in couple’s therapy; that concept, in particular, was one that she’d had a hard time grasping. Lori hadn’t been perfect, but god knows he hadn’t been either. Hell, he’s been more open and honest with Daryl in the few months that they’ve known each other than he had been with his wife in the last five years of their marriage._

_“I didn’t actually study criminal justice while I was in college,” Rick says, partly to distract himself from the route his thoughts are taking, but mostly to assure Daryl that he isn’t going to start demanding to know every last one of his secrets._

_“So you’re just fumbling around out there every damn day with a gun?” The hunter asks with a snort, but Rick can feel it when his body relaxes._

_“Was already set on joining the academy.” Rick explains. “Wanted to do it right out of high school, but my mom begged me to get a degree first. Helped out, actually. Wouldn’t have my job now without it. And I did minor in social justice. But I majored in Anthropology.”_

_“That some fancy Yankee term for gettin’ drunk and laid a lot?” Daryl asks dryly, and Rick laughs._

_“Pretty much was for me, yeah.” He says, but then back peddles. “Don’t get me wrong, I liked school, I’m glad I went. And anthropology is just the study of different societies and how people interact with each other and it really does come in handy, having learned that sorta stuff. I just…I dunno. Whole four years just felt like marking time.”_

_“Yer better off for it,” Daryl says after a few moments. “Look at me. I didn’t even graduate high school.”_

_“You’re doin’ pretty well.” Rick reminds him with a nudge._

_Daryl makes a sound, a little amused and a lot placating. “Yeah, and it only took me twelve years to get here.”_

_“Better than never.” Rick counters, wondering when he’d become so optimistic._

_Daryl doesn’t argue with him, just relaxes farther and starts running his hands up and down Rick’s legs. He’s missed physical contact like this, he has to admit. Friendly handshakes and fist bumps, even hugs from his son (rare as those have been these days) just aren’t the same as this kind of intimacy, the kind the blooms from being lovers._

_After a while of just sitting there like that, leaning against Daryl, Rick’s on the verge of either falling asleep or getting aroused, and he kind of wants to do both, one right after the other with sex in between. He wants to go home and fall asleep with this man in his bed. He never wants to leave._

Rick had gotten exactly what he’d wanted, too. He’d left eventually, of course, but it was with the knowledge that soon enough he’d be coming back. He feels like he’s always going to come back to Daryl. 

“I’m gonna talk to Carl again later,” Rick tells Daryl then, feeling resolved. “And if you’ll still have us, I think we’d love to spend the holidays with you guys.” 

Daryl clears his throat, and Rick can picture the way he’s probably sitting there chewing at his thumb nail, the way he always does when emotions get a little too intense for him to handle comfortably. It makes Rick smile warmly. 

“Don’t feel like ya gotta bring presents or nothin’,” he responds gruffly. 

“Oh, we’re probably gonna bring presents.” Rick counters, already thinking about how a trip to the mall might be a perfect way to lift Carl’s spirits. “And pie. Y’all like pie?” 

“The girls love it,” Daryl says, “But I’m serious, Charger. Ya don’t gotta –”

“I know I don’t _gotta_.” Rick cuts him off. “But I _wanna_. That alright with you?” 

“Suppose I can’t stop ya,” the other man sighs heavily, but Rick doesn’t think he’s really upset, just nervous, probably. And he has every right to be. By all counts, it _should_ feel like too soon to be merging families and sharing Christmas. They’ve only known each other four months. But Rick’s tired of thinking about his life in terms of _shoulds_. 

He loves Daryl and wants to be with him. He wants to be happy. He wants Carl to be happy. And he’s not going to let anything get in the way of that. Not even the ghosts of the only other two people he’s ever been in love with. 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts are always welcome :)


	19. Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, y’all!
> 
> May I present to you: Christmas fluff in February. Enjoy!
> 
> PS- For the sake of clarification, this story is taking place a few years prior to current time. I wanted the time frame for Rick and Daryl meeting to be closer to the time when the series originally aired, so the current year in this universe is 2011. For the most part this doesn’t really matter, but something comes up in this chapter that wouldn’t make sense if they were living in 2015 or ’16.

***  
***

It never seems to matter how he feels about the people he’s with – if he’s comfortable with them, tense, happy, angry, even elated by their mere presence – when it comes to holiday gatherings Daryl’s just always so fucking uncomfortable.

He has Carol and Sophia this year. And Rick. Those things alone should make him feel content. Maybe even peaceful. 

But they don’t. 

Last year he’d gone to Aaron and Eric’s for the holidays. There’d been more alcohol than there was food. Eric had been fighting with his parents at the time; refused to go home for some reason or another, and Christmas had bled into New Year’s with very little sobriety in between. That had been easy. 

Hershel’s family gatherings are just too _big_. He’d gone once, because Maggie and Beth had begged him to. But he’d snuck out right after dinner; slunk into the backyard for a smoke and then just hadn’t come back. Maggie hadn’t talked to him for two weeks after that. Beth, always the opposite of her sister in every way, had hugged him. Right at A &A’s two days after Christmas. She’d wrapped her arms around him like she understood something that even he didn’t. He still thinks about that sometimes; how her innocence had forgiven his sins. 

Dale had insisted Daryl spend the holiday with him the first year he’d started working for the man. He’d met Amy and Andrea that year, learned the story behind their relationship with Dale and why he’d named his shop after them. Their story had touched a little too close for Daryl, though, and he’d wound up home alone that night, drinking half a bottle of vodka and wondering what the hell he was doing anyway, trying to set down roots so close to the place that had nearly killed him. 

He’s more relaxed now than he had been that first Christmas, but it’s still hard. Seems like, no matter where he is, regardless of who he’s with, the holidays just put him on edge. Too many people expecting too many things, an abundance of commotion and all their eyes on him. It’ll be worse this year, too, because they’re doing it _here_. At his house. 

Carol had talked him into that, of course. Said, _“Go kill a buck, I’ll take care of the rest.”_ And she had. She’d done everything from the shopping, to the cooking, to vacuuming the rug three times a day because those little pine things fall off the tree like a _bitch_ , and having basically grown up in the woods he’d never really thought about that – because who the hell thinks it’s a good idea to keep a tree inside in the first place? – but she’d just tutted at him when he’d complained. _”Necessary evil,”_ she’d said. 

He wants to asks how she can be so joyful this time of year, when he knows for damn sure that this is probably the first happy Christmas she’s had in twenty years, but he stops himself because the answer is easy: this is how it had been for her when she was a kid, and she’s trying to give Sophia what she’s never been able to offer before now. 

In the end, that’s why he’d said yes. Agreed to all this holiday bullshit long before he thought Rick Grimes and his son would be here to share it with them. And, yeah, he’s glad Rick’s going to be here. Beyond glad. His stomach is doing goddamn cartwheels just _thinking_ about seeing that man again. But it’s a mixed bag, because seeing Rick is one thing – he thinks he’d be alright seeing the detective every single fucking day, can’t even imagine getting sick of having him around (and that’s just something else altogether, because Daryl never thought he’d feel this way about anybody again) – but being with him on _Christmas_ is different. 

Holidays are different. 

Because on holidays, there are expectations; and Daryl’s never been all that great at living up to those. It’s the man’s first Christmas without his wife, too. Add that to the meltdown that Carl’d apparently had at finding out about his dad and Daryl doin’ the nasty, and the mechanic doesn’t think there’s a gift in the world that’s going to make this day anything less than a painfully awkward disappointment. 

Figuring that it can’t get much worse anyway, Daryl mounts the Triumph early Christmas Eve morning and heads to Senoia. The ride is a couple hours in the traffic, but that’s for the best. Carol and Sophia need some time alone before everyone else joins them tomorrow. And he’ll be back long before the girl goes to bed. Has to be. He’d promised he’d be there tonight to watch her open one present – a stupid tradition if you ask him; opening one gift the night before you get to open all of them, but he’d made the promise so he’ll keep it. 

But first, he’s going to go see his brother. 

***  
***

Rick goes down to the station on Christmas Eve. 

He doesn’t have to – wasn’t called in for work or anything like that – but there’s something bugging him about the Philip Blake case. Something that’s been on his mind on and off for days now and he just doesn’t feel like he can settle down and enjoy the holiday before he checks it out. 

So he goes. Doesn’t bother putting on a suit – just jeans and a t-shirt – and tells Carl he’ll be back in less than an hour. His son is happier today than he has been since his meltdown over the revelation of Rick and Daryl’s relationship, though that’s due in no small part to the new cell phone they’d picked out at the mall the day before. 

His son had held up his end of the deal concerning his grades, so Rick had caved and purchased the phone while they’d been out shopping. Since he’d let Carl pick it out, it had seemed pointless to wrap the device and put it under the tree. Instead he’d let his son have it immediately, hoping he’d get over the thrill of the new indulgence enough by Christmas day that it wouldn’t distract him from the festivities. 

The bullpen is relatively empty – only a few detectives in between shifts mulling about. Rick had gotten time off because he’s a single father, and the Captain knows his situation. He’s lucky, because usually new guys get stuck working the holidays. 

He sits down at his desk and starts digging through all the files they have on Blake and the people associated with him. He’s barely skimming them, trying to find what he’s looking for. Invested as he is with his task, he’s startled by the sudden appearance of someone in front of him. 

“Well, if it isn’t Detective Beats Me at Poker Drunk,” the voice says, and Rick’s head snaps up. 

She’s wearing an elegantly stunning black dress, low-cut in all the right places, with her hair swept up in ponytail that looks messy on purpose. Rick blinks dumbly. “Rosita.” 

“Glad you remember me, Rick.” She says, eyes dancing with mischief. “Wasn’t sure you would, considering.” 

Rick can feel himself flushing a little, but his confusion and curiosity outweigh his embarrassment. “I remember you,” he says, closing the file he’d been looking at and setting it aside. “Surprised to see you here.” 

“Really?” She asks, and looks more amused than he thinks is strictly necessary. “What are _you_ doing here, Rick? Don’t you have a kid to shower with an overabundance of material goods?” 

He smiles a little, because her tone is gentle. “Got him a cell phone. He won’t notice I’m gone ‘til he gets hungry.” 

“Ah, the truth of parenting.” She nods solemnly. “See, honey, this is why I’m not in a hurry to procreate.” She directs this comment over her shoulder, and when Rick follows her gaze he’s more than a little surprised to see Abraham standing in the doorway behind her. 

He’s wearing a tailored suit, is the first thing that Rick notices, darker and dressier than he sports on the job. He’s even got one of those little handkerchief square things in his pocket – cobalt blue, to match his tie. 

His collogue approaches them and casually wraps an arm around Rosita’s waist. She leans against him in a way that screams domestic familiarity.

“Jesus Christ, _that’s_ why you looked so familiar when I met you.” Rick blurts, one of those lightbulb moments that can’t be contained. “See your picture on his desk.” He waves at Abraham and shakes his head, feeling that sort of absolute relief that comes from satisfying something that had been nagging you. Like finally getting a popcorn kernel out of your teeth. “You two are married?” 

Rosita smirks at Rick’s outburst, because of course she could have _told_ him why he’d recognized her that night, but had obviously chosen not to for her own amusement. “Not technically,” She responds to his question casually, still grinning a little. “Not yet. This guy here absolutely refuses to –” 

“Darlin’,” Abraham cuts her off, more pleading than demanding. A side of him that Rick’s definitely never seen before. 

Rosita rolls her eyes so hard that even Carl would be impressed. “What? It’s not embarrassing.” She nudges him gently. And somehow, even though she’s significantly smaller than him in every way and Ford could probably pick her up and toss her across the room if he were so inclined, she _seems_ just as larger than life as Abraham. Maybe even more so. 

They stare at each other for a long moment, standing there together in front of Rick’s desk, lost in their own world, conversing silently in a way that only people in love ever seem to manage. He wonders if he’ll ever be able to communicate with Daryl like that. It might be his recent bout of hopefulness and resolve talking, but he can imagine that future for them with spectacular ease. 

Eventually, Abraham ducks his gaze and Rosita grins triumphantly. She turns back to Rick and finishes her original thought; “He refuses to get married before it’s legal for _everybody_ to get married.” She says, smiling up at other man with fondness. Rick’s own eyes widen in surprise. “Which I was totally on board with from day one, because it shouldn’t be okay for the _government_ to openly support bigotry. I mean, besides being morally and ethically _fucked_ , they’re completely ignoring the fact that they’d actually save a shit ton of money if they let everyone who shares a life file as a joint –”

“No soapboxes tonight, Rosey.” Abraham interrupts, running a thumb over his newly close-trimmed beard nervously. 

“No soapboxes at the _party_ ,” she counters, and glares at the taller man. It morphs into an easy grin quick enough, though. “Sorry,” she says to Rick. “I just wrote a piece on Prop 8.” 

Rick nods. “S’okay.” He manages. “I…” he doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to say. _Thank you? We appreciate your support?_ He scratches at the back of his neck. “Uh…”

“What are you doin’ here, Grimes?” Ford interrupts his stuttering, pulling the attention back to the mess spread out over his desk. 

With ease, Rick falls back into his role as detective. It occurs to him as he’s shuffling through the last of the files that this is actually the first time he and Abraham have really talked to each other since the night he’d threated Rick about Daryl. He’d known they’d have to, eventually – he just hadn’t been expecting it to be on Christmas Eve with Rosita to witness it. Probably better this way, he reasons: less tension. 

“I think Tara Chambler lied to us.” 

Abraham’s face contorts. “About what?” He grouches. 

“Well, maybe not lied,” Rick clarifies. “Just didn’t tell us everything. She was the only person we’ve talked to, at all, that ever knew Blake had a daughter, right? How would she know that?” 

“He told her.” Abraham says, but it’s with a tinge of doubt now. 

“This guy was leading the Chapel High Hill cult for _years_ and he’s never, _ever_ let that slip. To anyone, as far as we know.” Rick shakes his head. “No, I think she knew for a different reason.” 

“And what might that be, Detective Grimes?” His words are mocking and curious in equal measure, like he’s planning on picking a direction as soon as Rick gets to his point. 

“Tara Chambler had a sister,” Rick finds what he’s looking for, and sets the stack of papers on the desk facing his partner. “Lilly. She was a lot older. Mom had her in her teens. She got arrested a few times, dropped out of school in the tenth grade, and then vanished. She was found years later murdered.” 

Ford squints at the file and then looks back at Rick. “Feds went over that. Couldn’t find any connection between her and Blake. Mrs. Chambler probably took Tara to live in that cult in the first place because’a what happened to her first daughter.” 

“Maybe.” Rick says. “Or maybe Lilly is the mother of Blake’s daughter.” 

“That might be a stretch.” Abraham hedges. 

“Maybe.” Rick agrees. “But Tara wouldn’t talk about her sister when she was here. Do you remember that? Everything else, but not her. I dunno, maybe it’s nothing, but it feels like something worth looking into.” 

Abraham opens his mouth, but Rosita cuts him off. “Something that y’all can look into _after_ the holidays, right? Because you’re not getting out of this party, honey.” 

Lori used to use that voice with him – that, _I want you to do this thing and I’m not letting up until you agree so don’t even bother arguing_ tone. He hadn’t known it could transcend such different relationships. 

“We’d have to talk it over with the Captain and Sasha, anyway.” Rick cuts in. “I just came in today ‘cause it was bugging me. I couldn’t remember how old Tara’s sister was, if the timeline even would’ve fit. But it does.” 

“Gotta hunch about this, don’t ya?” Abraham asks, and he already sounds resolved. Like he knows Rick’s not planning on letting this go until they’ve investigated it thoroughly. 

“Yeah.” He breathes. For the first time since he’s been here, he feels a professional comradery with Abraham Ford that he hasn’t felt with anybody ever other than Shane. He tries not to focus on that. “Yeah, I really do.” 

“Then we’ll look into it.” The other man nods decidedly. “After Christmas,” he adds, mostly as an aside to Rosita. 

“Good,” she says, sounding pleased. 

They make their leave then, the two of them strolling arm and arm out of the station as Rick rearranges the clutter on his desk. Right before they make it out the door, Rosita pauses. “Hey,” she says. Rick glances back up at her. “Tell Daryl I said Merry Christmas, alright?” She pauses, shoots her not-husband a look that Rick can’t read, and then adds, “From both of us.” 

***  
***

Christmas morning dawns with a clap of thunder. 

Daryl rolls out of bed with a weary groan and looks out the window. Dark storm clouds hover in the sky, dropping buckets of rain over the wide expanse of his backyard in a steady patter. 

“Good thing you don’t gotta go out anywhere today.” Carol greets him when he makes it down to the kitchen, handing him a cup of coffee as he grunts his good morning. “Bike in this weather wouldn’t bode well, and it looks like it’s sticking around for a while.” 

“Girl up yet?” He asks after his first few sips of the freshly brewed coffee. 

“Found her downstairs last night shaking all the presents,” Carol tells him, smiling fondly. “We stayed up for a while. Probably won’t be outta bed ‘til later.” 

Daryl nods and stares out the kitchen window. The grey sky feels fitting to him; today is supposed to be one of the happiest days of the year, but all he feels is tension, coiled deep in his gut like a rattlesnake waiting to strike. He tries to shake the feeling away, because he knows he’ll have to for today to be good for everyone else. And he wants today to be good for them. He really does. He just wishes it wasn’t so damn hard. 

“How’s Merle?” Carol redirects the conversation, like she can sense his turmoil and wants to pull him away from it. 

Daryl smirks a little despite himself. “A swaggering, cocky, asshole piece of shit,” he responds, but with a fondness that can’t be faked. “Never thought prison could agree with someone so much, but he gets off on bein’ there. Thinks he’s top-fuckin’-dog or some shit.” 

Carol’s smile is a little tighter. Probably she’s remembering that Ed had died in the very same prison that Daryl had visited yesterday. She doesn’t regret his death, sees it as nothing short of a blessing, Daryl knows that, but still. Thinking about that bastard at all always puts her in a mood. 

“You tell him you’re shacking up with a man of the law?” She asks, purposely playful in an attempt to distract herself from thoughts of her late husband. May he not rest in peace. 

Daryl cringes. “Not the sorta conversation you wanna have in the visitin’ area of a prison,” he says. “Merle might be fine enough ignorin’ where I like to put my dick, but I don’t think his gang buddies would be so alright with it, they overheard somethin’ like that.” 

Carol nods her acknowledgment of the reality of the situation. Then, “You planning on _ever_ sharing that with him?” 

Daryl looks down at the kitchen table, uses one thumb to pick at the skin around the other and sighs. “Don’t see why he’s gotta know. He’d just give me shit about it.” 

“He’s your brother.” Carol points out, like that somehow counts as an argument. It might to her, even, ‘cause all she knows of Merle is what he’s told her, and Daryl tends to leave out the worst aspects of his brother’s personality when he’s describing him to others. Probably, she’s picturing him as a slightly rougher-around-the-edges version of Daryl. 

“Hey, he ever makes it up for parole, I’ll sit ‘im down and spell it out,” he settles on saying. “’Course, he hears I’m fucking a cop he’ll probably go on some over dramatic fucking murder rampage. Dude’s a fuckin’ crybaby when shit doesn’t go his way.”

She laughs at the utter inappropriateness of Daryl’s joke. Not really a joke, actually, but she doesn’t need to know that. 

“Your call, Pookie,” she picks up her own coffee cup and makes her way towards the living room, gently ruffling his hair as she passes. She always makes sure he sees it when she’s about to touch him, even when it’s something small. He appreciates that, because he doesn’t always want to be touched, but he also knows it’s more about her than him; she’s treating him how she _needs_ to be treated under the guise of protecting him the way she _thinks_ he needs to be protected. 

It’s a little fucked up, if he thinks about it too hard, but at the end of the day it works for them. Mostly because they’re both a little fucked up. 

_“That woman and her brat still moochin’ off’a you, little brother?”_ Merle had clucked at him the day before, leaning back in the cheap plastic prison chair and crossing his arms. 

Daryl had scowled at the words and their implication. _“You know what their story is, jackass.”_ He’d snapped. 

_“Oh, I remember,”_ Merle had licked his lips, like he was thinking back on the last porter house steak he’d eaten before his incarceration. _“Spotted her piece’a shit, good fer nuthin’ husband the second he got here, Daralenna. Ya know how?”_

Since he’d heard the story once or twice before, he’d simply rolled his eyes and deadpanned, _“You smelled his fear?”_

_“I smelled his fear,”_ Merle had leaned forward then, poking his finger into the table separating them. _“Ain’t nothin’ smells like a man who beats his wife and kid when they get ta the big house, little brother. They know they ain’t lastin’ long. Only ones worse are the kiddie rapers.”_

Daryl’s whole face had distorted in an ugly grimace. _“Merry fuckin’ Christmas, asshole. I didn’t come out here to listen to you go on about shit like that.”_

_“Gettin’ soft on me, Daryl?”_ Merle had tutted his disappointment. _“Don’t got no room for that, little brother. Not considerin’ your other…predilections.”_ He’d lowered his voice and ducked his head to say even that much. 

They’d moved on from there, choosing instead to talk about a Christmas many years ago, when Merle had taken Daryl out into the woods and taught him how to use the crossbow for the first time. 

_“Couldn’t lift the thing for shit,”_ Daryl had laughed, remembering. _“You had’ta hold it for me.”_

_“Yeah, but you aimed,”_ Merle had countered. They’d both pretended back then that he hadn’t needed Merle’s strength to lift the weapon. Daryl had spent a lot of time, in the years following that Christmas, pretending that he didn’t need Merle’s strength at all. 

***  
***

Rick and Carl arrive at Daryl’s that afternoon in a cluttered mess of shaking off water and trying to wrangle big bags of wrapped gifts. 

“Thanks,” Rick says as Carol takes the heavy-duty Macy’s shopping totes he’s carrying. He runs his hands through his sopping wet hair and grins. “Carl hogged the umbrella.” 

“You gave it to me.” His son protests, but is quickly distracted by the presence of Sophia. “Hey.” He greets her excitedly. “Come see what my dad bought me.” 

There’s a barked laugh from the living room sofa, where Rick turns to see Aaron and Eric sitting comfortably next to each other. “Hey, guys,” he says. “Merry Christmas.” 

They return his greeting cheerily, leaning into one another and looking content. Rick has a moment of clarity watching them, because up until right then he hadn’t realized the two men were in a relationship. It doesn’t feel like much of a shock, that revelation, because as soon as his brain slots the pieces together it’s like, _well, duh_. He remembers assuming Eric’s sexual orientation back on poker night, but had never considered Aaron one way or the other. Seeing them together, though, feels like the most obvious thing in the world. 

“Go upstairs and get dried off,” Carol instructs, eyeing him like a mother hen. “Before you catch your death.” 

“Yeah, alright,” he agrees, shooting one last look at his son to make sure he’ll be alright in his absence. But Carl is engrossed in a conversation with Sophia, and doesn’t even notice it when Rick makes his way out of the room. 

He meets Daryl in the hallway on his way to the bathroom. The younger man is coming out of his room, and Rick’s heart flutters at the sight of him. He’s wearing a dark red t-shirt and the same nice jeans he’d worn on their date. His expression turns soft and warm as soon as he catches sight of the detective. 

“You look like a drowin’ rat there, Charger,” he says as he approaches, but it’s teasing. He gets right in front of Rick, so close that their bodies are almost touching. 

Rick’s stomach clenches. “You look nice.” He says in response. “Festive.” 

Daryl just hums, reaching out and fingering a lock of Rick’s still-dripping hair. “Should get you a towel.” He mutters, and the older man feels colder than he had in the rain when Daryl pulls away from him. 

Like a man lost and following blindly the only beacon he can see, he trails behind Daryl until they get to the bathroom. The younger man’s barely got the door shut behind them before he’s pushing Rick into it. 

“Daryl,” he says, and if it comes out like a gasp that’s only because he’s having a hard time breathing. The younger man smells like pine, with vague traces of that fresh earth musk that always seems to linger on his skin. 

The hunter stops after getting him backed into the door. They’re pressed together now from chest to hip, staring into each other’s eyes like someone had called a time out on the whole world. 

Slowly, as if he’s dragging his hand through quicksand, Daryl reaches up and cups the side of Rick’s neck, letting his thumb trace over his jawline. Rick licks his lips, purposely taking deep, controlled breaths. 

_I love you._

_I love you._

_I love you._

And all of a sudden he can’t stand the static anymore. He lunges forward and presses their lips together, smiling a little when he hears Daryl’s sudden exhale, sees the surprise in his eyes. The younger man doesn’t stay dazed long; with ease, he pushes himself even more firmly against Rick, until all the detective can feel is the ridged pattern of the bathroom door digging into his back, Daryl’s hands squeezing his hip and neck in equal measure, and his lips trying to forge a whole new story against his. 

He pulls back panting, but doesn’t let that deter him. He gets his own hands on Daryl’s chest, running them up that broad expanse of covered flesh and unto his shoulders, before settling on his biceps. He moves forward as much as he can and ducks his head, planting light kisses up Daryl’s neck and marveling in it when the younger man shudders. 

“Fuck, that’s nice,” he mutters, and Rick grins triumphantly. 

“Feel like I haven’t seen you in weeks,” he says, moving around just enough so that he can suck lightly on the younger man’s adam’s apple. 

Daryl groans deep in the back of his throat and moves one hand to the door Rick’s still pressed against, trying to steady himself. At the same time, he arches his head up, chin jutted towards the ceiling, to allow Rick more room to explore the skin there. 

Absently, Rick’s aware that they don’t have a lot of time; that there’s a whole room full of people downstairs, including their respective kids, who are going to start commenting on their absence soon. But Rick doesn’t care. He knows he should, but he just doesn’t. Being around Daryl has a way of blocking out everything else, and shy of something catastrophic, he doesn’t think anything could pull him away from this moment. 

Daryl makes a sound like a whimper when the stubble on Rick’s chin grazes the skin made sensitive by his ministrations. Hearing that noise from Daryl, knowing that he’d been the one to pull it out of him, makes Rick’s already hard cock throb in the confines of his pants. 

Just like that, he knows what he wants to do. 

With a force that Daryl probably could have fought against if he’d been thinking clearly, Rick shoves himself against the younger man, redirecting their positions until Daryl’s backed up against the sink. 

Before he can do what he wants to do next, Daryl grabs a fistful of his hair and tugs. Rick bends into the force of it easily, allowing Daryl to guide him. The younger man catches his gaze and lifts his eyebrows in a silent question. 

“Part of my Christmas present,” he explains, even though in reality he hadn’t anticipated this happening today at all. “Wouldn’t be appropriate to give it to you in front of everybody else.” 

Daryl’s eyes go wide with desire and surprise. “Hurry up then,” he grunts, moving both hands to grip the edge of the sink behind him. His words are confident and controlled, but he starts panting as soon as Rick pops the button on his jeans. 

Daryl’s boxers are bright green, and Rick laughs even as he palms the other man’s dick through the fabric. “I suppose that counts as Christmas spirit,” he declares, and moves to mouth at the fabric, causing Daryl’s breathing to hitch. 

“C’mon, Charger,” the younger man rumbles, “Keep it up, you ain’t gonna have time to get yours.” 

Rick swallows thickly. “Like teasing you,” he says, lips grazing Daryl’s dick as he talks. But still, the other man is right, and he pulls away reluctantly. 

Daryl shivers when he’s exposed to the cool air in the bathroom. Rick glances up and sees the muscles in his chest and arms bulging with the tension of gripping the sink and holding himself upright. 

And Merry goddamn Christmas to him, because that’s one hell of a view. 

Without warning, he takes Daryl almost all the way into his mouth in one move. The younger man bucks his hips into the wet heat, and Rick has to pull back a little. 

“Sorry,” Daryl mutters. He moves one hand down and cards his fingers into Rick’s hair again. This time he doesn’t tug, but holds on lightly. 

Rick smirks as much as he can with a dick in his mouth and resumes a slow slide down, getting Daryl used to the sensations before sucking once, hard, and then keeping the pressure while he bobs his head steadily. 

Daryl’s biting his lip, trying not to make any overtly loud noises, but the stilted breathing and occasional little humming sounds he lets loose are enough for Rick. It goes on for a while; keeps his pace hard and fast, reaching up when Daryl’s finally close and cupping his balls in one hand and then pressing up between them lightly with a knuckle. 

The younger man loses it. His grip on Rick’s hair gets painfully tight for a moment, holding him in place like he might die if Rick tries to pull away. Then he comes hard down his throat, mouth open in a silent yell as Rick struggles to swallow everything he’s offered. 

After a few seconds of labored breathing, Daryl’s fingers relax, and he looks down at Rick with worry clouding over the glaze of his post-orgasmic bliss. The detective pulls back slowly, and gently licks at the slit of Daryl’s softening cock with a small grin, letting him know that he hadn’t minded the treatment. 

Daryl’s expression goes tellingly dark for a moment, and his cock twitches under Rick’s tongue. 

“Charger,” his voice is rough, and Rick leans back a little to get a better look at him. “I –”

There’s a soft knock on the bathroom door, and Rick scrambles to his feet nearly as fast as Daryl bolts for the door, prepared to block it if someone tries to enter. The knob doesn’t turn, but Rick can just make out Carol’s voice on the other side over the blood rushing to his head. 

“We tried to hold them off, but the kids are getting impatient and hungry. Y’all probably got two minutes before one of them comes looking for you.” And then the creak of the floorboards as she’s walking away. 

“Shit,” Rick drops his head into his hands, scrubbing them over his face, “Shit, Daryl.” 

The younger man is just smirking when he looks back up at him, the amusement in his expression so out of place and _smug_ that it makes Rick chuckle a little despite himself. “Well, at least that killed my boner,” he deadpans. “Won’t have to sit funny all through dinner.” 

Daryl’s expression darkens again. “Could make you sit funny.” He says, mostly under his breath. 

Rick shakes his head. “Not in two minutes.” He counters, and then takes a deep breath, moving to look in the mirror. His hair is a mess, from the rain and Daryl’s fingers both – damp and curling ridiculously, stuck up in every direction. His grey dress shirt is still wet at the shoulders, and starting to chafe. He sighs and grabs a nearby towel. “You have a shirt I can borrow?” 

***

Dinner is a lighthearted affair. Carol has cooked a feast of venison and more side dishes than Rick can even count, and the conversation flows freely. Rick, Aaron, and Eric drink the wine that’s offered, and halfway through the second bottle all three of them are flushed and happy. 

Carol is sticks to drinking water, and Daryl, true to form, is sipping from a bottle of beer. Rick catches his gaze across the table every few minutes, and flushes an even deeper shade of red at the looks the younger man is shooting him. Some combination of what they’d done upstairs and the fact that Rick is wearing one of Daryl’s shirts – a black, long-sleeved thermal thing that hangs just a smidge too loose in the shoulders – has got his lover distracted. Though he’s not sure anyone besides him (and Aaron, who’s watching them with a knowing expression in between conversations) has noticed. 

Aaron tells embarrassing stories about Daryl – _“Did he ever tell you about the time he drove a car into the side of the building?”_. Eric talks about his job – _“I had this client once who wanted to go to trial with ‘my ferret told me to do it’ as his defense. And this dude passed the psych eval.”_ Rick complains about how insanely crowded the mall had been when he and Carl had gone shopping a few days before, and Carol encourages the kids with questions about school and hobbies. 

It takes until his plate is almost empty and his pants feel painfully tight (for a very different reason than they had earlier) for Rick to notice that Daryl has barely said anything this whole time. He’s responded when asked a direct question, and chimed in once or twice to defend his side of some of Aaron’s stories, but mostly he’s stayed silent.

Rick studies him closely once his wine-fogged brain makes that revelation. He seems happy enough – smiling when people look at him and nodding along when Sophia or Carl say something, ducking his head in interest, but there’s something else. A rigidness around his shoulders and tension in his features; it’s well-hidden, but glaringly obvious to Rick once he sees it. 

For a moment he thinks it’s about him, that him and Carl being here is putting him on edge, but almost immediately he dismisses that. Daryl had been fine upstairs when they were alone. So, no, it’s something else. Something about this situation that Daryl doesn’t enjoy but is trying his best to ignore for everyone else’s sake. Realizing that makes his gut clench painfully, the strength of empathy he feels for this man nearly overwhelming. 

Daryl looks over at him then, like he can sense Rick’s thoughts. The detective smiles softly, hoping that his eyes don’t betray his other emotions. Daryl just gazes at him curiously, not quite understanding the moment. 

“Mom, can we open presents now?” Sophia’s question distracts all of them, and since they’ve eaten as much as they can at this point, the adults agree to head into the living room and save dessert for later. 

Rick watches as Daryl immediately claims a spot on the couch farthest from the tree. He presses himself against the armrest and leans away from the ruckus. Without giving it too much thought, Rick sits down right next him. He claps Daryl’s knee when the younger man looks at him curiously, but says nothing. 

Sophia and Carl hand out presents, and they’re opened as they’re received. As everyone oohs and awws over their gifts, shouting out their thanks, and occasionally even getting up to exchange a quick hug, Daryl curls even farther into himself. 

Rick thinks he’s beginning to understand. He subtly reaches behind his lover and places a hand on the small of his back, finding the skin under the hem of his t-shirt. When Daryl looks at him, confused and almost suspicious, Rick just smiles softly. He keeps his hand in place, rubbing gentle circles here and there, and slowly Daryl begins to relax a little. 

The gifts are mostly thoughtful and traditional. Rick had played it safe and got most everyone gift cards – for Sophia, he’d picked out several books, with his son’s help. And for Daryl he’d bought something called a Dynamite Fire Starter Box, which looks like an actual crate of explosives (though much smaller) and holds dynamite sticks that look real. In actuality they’re perfectly safe and designed to start campfires and such. He’d picked it out on a whim, because it was fun and had made him think of Daryl. 

A part of him had wanted to get the man something else, something deep and meaningful and _real_ , but as intense as his feelings for Daryl are, they’ve only known each other a few months. Rick loves him, but it’s such a new thing. And besides, he’s always been unjustifiably terrible at picking out gifts. 

The mechanic chuckles when he opens it. Then laughs outright when the next gift Rick opens is his – a book called _The Beginner’s Guide to Hunting and Camping._

“Well that worked out well,” Eric is smirking at them from the other end of the couch. 

Rick ducks his head a little, but doesn’t stop grinning. Carl’s watching him curiously from his spot next to Sophia near the tree. He smiles at his son warmly, letting him know that his attention will always be on him if he needs it. Carl smiles back at him, a genuine little thing that Rick hasn’t seen in a while. It’s nice. 

Carl and Sophia open up their pile of gifts with never-failing enthusiasm, and soon enough an impressive mound of video games, DVDs, books, and comic books are stacked up in front of them. 

Daryl receives a nice new bike helmet from Aaron and Eric, a gun cleaning kit from Carol, and a hand-knit scarf from Sophia that her mother had obviously had a large part in creating. It’s navy blue and white; Sophia stops what she’s doing when he opens it and asks nervously, “Do you like it?” 

Daryl smiles warmly and twines it around his neck. “I do. Thank you, Soph.” 

“He loves it,” Rick adds, and reaches out to finger the fabric. “I love it, too. Feels nice and warm.” 

Sophia’s face lights up. “Mom says you can wear it on the bike when it’s cold.” 

“I will.” Daryl promises. 

“I can make you one next year if you want, Rick.” She tells him, smiling wide and apparently completely over feeling any sense of apprehension around him at all. “Mom helped me with that one, but I bet next year I could do it mostly by myself.” 

The whole room seems to stops to listen for Rick’s response to that – the implication that he’ll be here next year, too. Daryl’s face is a perfect mask of indifference when Rick glances over at him for help. 

Swallowing thickly and deciding to go for broke, Rick nods at the girl and says simply, “That’d be real sweet of you, Sophia.” 

The commotion picks up again with ease, everyone seemingly content with his implied declaration, and Rick breathes out steadily. He looks to his lover again and finds his eyes shining the brightest sort of blue Rick’s ever seen. “I mean that.” He whispers.

The hunter’s response is a breath, barely there under the chatter, crinkling wrapping paper, and Christmas music playing softly in the background; but Rick hears it because he’s listening. Because it _matters_. “Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thing Rick got Daryl: http://www.amazon.com/Woodeze-Black-Powder-Stove-Firestarter/dp/B001H2VPXQ


	20. New Year's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not gonna say anything about last week's episode, cause I don't wanna spoil anything if you wait to watch them or anything (I probably won't get to see next week's until the week after, actually) But...this story is my safe place. Come partake.

***  
***

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Rick finds him on the back porch later, shivering even with Sophia’s scarf wrapped around his neck. The rain had let up sometime during the evening, leaving in its wake a cold, damp mist.

“Never said it was,” he grunts, flicking an ash over the porch railing just to watch it sizzle out in a puddle. 

“I didn’t know you smoked.” Rick says, and Daryl hears him take a few steps closer. 

“Don’t much,” Daryl sniffs. He sucks the last of the nicotine out of the thing and flicks it away. “It bug you?” 

Rick shrugs. “Nah.” 

Daryl nods and looks out over his backyard. This is another thing he hates about the holidays – they get him all uptight, thinking about what he has, how shitty the road to get here had been, and how easy it would be to lose it all. 

No matter how far he comes, or how much he gains, everything he has in his life that makes him happy will always feel like a spun-glass ornament being balanced on the head of a pin. 

“You don’t like the holidays, do you?” Rick asks softly, coming up behind him closer still, until he can reach out and touch. He stands behind Daryl with one hand on his hip. Then he moves the other one to mirror it and presses closer. In heartbeats that feel like lightyears, Rick’s got himself pressed against Daryl’s back, arms circling his waist, with his forehead resting on the back of his neck the same way it had been days before in Daryl’s bed at the brush of dawn. 

And just like then, Daryl relaxes into the sensation of being held. There’s a moment of panic, an instinctive jolt of _too close, not safe, don’t let them see_ but it fades into contentment with a single powerful shove. 

“Know I should,” Daryl responds. “Happy time an’ all that. But…” he trails off, lets his fingers trace patterns on his lover’s wrists. 

“Yeah, I get it.” 

“You do?”

“Well,” Rick hedges. “I guess not really. I don’t even remember last Christmas. And this year, I was just so worried about Carl. You made that a lot easier, by the way.” He grazes a kiss on the side of Daryl’s neck, right under his hair. The hunter shivers and squeezes his hand. “But even with all that, the holidays always feel kinda…I dunno. Pure? Not much can touch it, for me.” 

“I ain’t never gonna feel that way.” Daryl says, and he really doesn’t mean for the words to come out, but they do and he bites his lip hard. “Fuck. Don’t pay me no mind, Charger. Lettin’ all this fuckin’ cheer go’ta my head.” 

Rick just hums thoughtfully and stays where he is, warming the chill that had spread out over Daryl’s skin until even his bones feel like they’re on fire. 

“You should stay here tonight.” 

Rick’s grip tightens. “Don’t know if that’s the best idea.” He says, but sounds so regretful that not even the deepest, most scarred pieces of Daryl’s self-worth feel it as a snub. “With Carl and everything that we…”

“It’s up to you,” the hunter eventually mumbles, when the trail of Rick’s words is good and lost. “Roads are gonna suck, ‘cause a the rain.”

“I like being here,” Rick’s lips graze Daryl’s skin as he talks. “Maybe even too much.” 

Daryl thinks he gets what the other man means by that – the natural hesitation that comes from diving in so deep so fast. He feels it, too. Like all he has to do is blink and he won’t even be able to breathe without Rick Grimes in his life. It’s scary as shit. And a big part of him wants to pull back, deny the reality of the situation the same way he still tries to deny that Sophia is his. 

But deep down he knows. 

Sophia _is_ his. Carol _is_ family. And Rick has his heart. 

Daryl thinks about the man holding him; closes his eyes and recalls the image of Rick standing on the roof at Grayson’s. He’s pretty sure that for the rest of his life, whenever he thinks of Rick, that will always be the first memory to greet him. He shivers a little, and smiles when his lover starts running his hands up and down Daryl’s bare arms, because he can’t even feel the cold anymore but Rick’s still trying to protect him from it. 

“I want to stay.” Rick whispers. And then, quieter still and with the barest trace of desperation; “Tell me everything is gonna be okay?” 

Daryl’s gut clenches when he remembers Rick drunkenly pleading with him to say those same words in the bathroom of Maggie’s bar, a few weeks ago now – though it feels like longer. So much longer.

Daryl turns around, so they’re finally facing each other. He grabs both of Rick’s hands in his and twines their fingers together. He locks eyes with the older man and speaks firmly “Everything’s gonna be okay, Rick.” 

And when his lover nods like he believes him, Daryl knows that he’d just made a promise. 

***  
***

The week between Christmas and New Year passes in a blur. Seems like, no matter what, it always does. Rick goes back to work on the 27th, but instead of leaving Carl home alone everyday he now drives him out to Carol and Daryl’s house instead. 

This change in routine had come about the morning after Christmas day, when Carl and Rick had been eating breakfast with Daryl, Sophia, and Carol and his son had mentioned their current arrangement. 

_“He’s welcome to come over here during the day, Rick,”_ Carol had said with genuine kindness. “ _I’m home most days with Sophia, and we wouldn’t mind some company.”_

Carl’s response had been enthusiastic, Sophia had seemed pleased, and Daryl had simply shrugged, but half-smiled in such a way that Rick knew he also thought it was a good idea. So he’d let it happen. 

The new arrangement is doing wonders for his son; Carl hasn’t had another breakdown, or even talked back to him, since the holiday. Plus, there’s the added bonus of Rick now gets to see Daryl every single day, no matter what. At first he’d been a little afraid that the increased exposure would lead to negative feelings, or somehow pop the little bubble of _just us, brand new, butterflies every time you see him_ that they’d been living in. 

The amazing thing is, it _doesn’t_. Rick’s heart still skips a beat each day when he gets to the house. And Daryl still ducks his head a little, adorably shy, and grins every evening when Rick comes through the door. It happens so predictably, in fact, that Sophia makes a comment about it one day. “ _I’ve never seen you smile the way you smile at Rick. It’s pretty.”_

Carol had chuckled knowingly at her daughter’s words. _“Out of the mouths of babes.”_

Carl hasn’t commented on their relationship again, but Rick finds his son watching them sometimes – studying him and Daryl both like he’s trying to figure something out. Rick doesn’t press him on the subject, knowing that his son will come to him when he’s ready. 

Simply put, a lot has changed by the time the day before New Year’s Eve rolls around. 

“And Carol’s alright watching the kids?” Rick asks nervously. He and Daryl are alone in his bedroom while Carl and Sophia watch a movie downstairs and Carol cooks dinner. Rick and Carl haven’t spent the night here since Christmas day – Rick worries about creating an unsteady living environment for his son by keeping him away from home too often – but he and Daryl always find some way to be alone for at least a little while. 

Right now, they’re sprawled out together on the bed, still fully clothed. Rick’s sitting against the headboard while Daryl had belly-flopped onto the mattress and buried his head in the detective’s thigh. 

“She’s fine with it,” the mechanic mutters, words getting jumbled against the material of Rick’s dress pants. “Don’t like parties much anyway.” 

“Neither do you,” Rick comments, running his fingers through Daryl’s hair absently. 

“Do when they’re at Maggie’s bar and I get’ta see Aaron’s drunk ass singing Hakuna Matata at the top of his lungs.”

Rick barks a laugh. “Seriously?”

“Every fuckin’ year.” Daryl confirms, arching slightly into Rick’s hand when the other man scratches his fingers against his scalp. “Eric threatened to break up with ‘im one year if he did it, so he sang Baby Got Back instead. Eric _begged_ him to switch back after that.” 

Rick chuckles, imagining the scene. “How long have they been together? Aaron and Eric?” 

Daryl wraps one arm around Rick’s waist and moves so his head is pillowed on Rick’s hip. “Hmm, I dunno,” he says, sounding drowsy. “Six years, maybe. Seven.” 

“How’d they meet?” Rick’s curious because they’re Daryl’s friends – maybe even his friends, too, at this point – but also because he hasn’t met a lot of openly out gay couples in his life, and it fascinates him. 

Daryl’s snort reverberates against Rick’s stomach, the bare skin of which Daryl’s insistent nuzzling has somehow found, and it makes him shiver. The younger man is exhausted today – Rick had seen it as soon as he’d come by after work, and at first he’d wanted to leave, not force interaction on him when he was clearly ready to drop. But Daryl’s agitation had ceased as soon as they’d gotten to the bedroom; his tiredness morphing into easy conversation and sleepy cuddles. 

Rick is shamelessly taking full advantage. 

“Aaron was test-drivin’ this rich asshole’s Escalade. On the highway, ‘cause he put a new brake booster in it,” Daryl says like that’s obvious. 

“Sure.” Rick agrees. He doesn’t even know what a brake booster _is_. 

“Was speedin’, ‘cause ya do that sometimes,” the younger man goes on. “Cop pulled ‘im over. Aaron’d gone and left his wallet in his box. No ID or nuthin’. Cop ran the plates and arrested ‘im on the spot. Escalade asshole had somethin’ like four warrants out for his arrest. Looked enough like Aaron, too, that they couldn’t be sure it wasn’t him. Or they were jus’ bein’ dicks.” 

“I hope I’ve changed your opinion of cops somewhat, since we’ve known each other,” Rick chimes in, but it’s playfully. 

Daryl grunts. “Hardly, Detective,” he retorts, but it’s no more serious than Rick had been. “Anyways, Eric was at the station when they brought him in. Guess he was workin’ as a public defender then. Was down there dealin’ with some other shitbag and Aaron’s cussin’ up a storm caught his attention. Offered to represent him, ‘cause Eric’s a good guy like that, but he didn’t believe ‘im for one second, when he told the story about bein’ on a test drive. Aaron was workin’ for some dingy garage outfit back then. No uniform or nothin’. Eric thought he was full’a shit. Told ‘im that if he was tellin’ the truth, if he really wasn’t the guy with the Escalade, he’d buy him a fucking steak and lobster dinner. Finger prints came back as no match a couple hours later. That was that.” 

“Wow,” Rick comments when Daryl’s through. “That’s one helluva story.”

“That’s how they tell it,” the mechanic says, pausing for a moment to yawn widely. “Ya ask me, I bet they met in a fuckin’ Pottery Barn.” 

Rick laughs. “Nah, I like their way. Sounds like fate had a hand in bringin’ them together.” 

“Ya believe in that kinda shit, Charger?” Daryl doesn’t sound very upset, but something about the question feels important. 

Rick thinks about it for a little while, slowly digging his thumbs into the chorded muscles of Daryl’s shoulders, encouraging him to relax even farther into his hold. “I dunno. Maybe.” He says eventually. “Mostly I think stuff happens, and you make the most of what you’re dealt.”

“Wild animal ain’t ever gonna walk up’ta you an’ ask ya to shoot it.” Daryl mutters, completely calm at this point. 

“Right,” Rick smiles at Daryl’s metaphor. “Same time, though, maybe there are certain people in this world that you’re meant to know. And maybe that makes you do stuff when you first meet them, y’know? Stuff you wouldn’t normally do.” He pauses. “You said when you first met Carol you gave her your number, but you didn’t know why. Maybe it’s something like that.” 

“Any other customer let their fuckin’ kid wander into my shop I woulda driven their car out on fuckin’ jacks an’ let it rot in the parkin’ lot,” Daryl sounds more asleep than awake at this point, and Rick can only figure that’s where this streak of absolute honesty is coming from. “You were too pretty, though. Liked your hair. All wavy and curls.” 

“Go to sleep,” Rick instructs, twining a lock of Daryl’s dark-blonde hair around his own fingers. 

“M’kay.” Daryl agrees, and his breathing evens out quickly. 

Rick stares down at his lover and feels perfectly content in every way imaginable. 

***

New Year’s Eve and Day are two of the most coveted time-off slots for every single member of the Atlanta PD; both because people like to go out and celebrate, and because working on those days is a nightmare, with all the increased partying-related arrests. Seeing as Rick had gotten the days surrounding Christmas off, he’d figured for sure that he’d be stuck on duty. Had even volunteered for it, figuring fair was fair. 

Within their department, however, there’s apparently a long-standing tradition of raffling the days off. Literally throwing your name in a hat and leaving it up to fate. With very few exceptions – usually based on massive seniority or pre-existing time off requests – this is how their captain makes all scheduling decisions concerning New Year’s. 

Rick had gotten lucky. He has to work a five-hour shift on New Year’s Eve – early in the afternoon, before the chaos of drunken calls tends to start – and doesn’t have to be back until the 3rd of the month. 

“Goddammit, Grimes,” Ford gripes when he sees the results of the draw. “You’re a mother dicking sonnova bitch, y’know that?” 

Rick grins wide and proud. “Ya didn’t get the night shift,” he says, glancing at the schedule. “You got plans for the evening?” 

Ford clears his throat. “Rosita’s goin’ to Maggie’s little shindig at the bar. Reckon you are, too.” 

Rick nods, a little hesitant. “Yeah.” 

“She’ll come home wasted and we’ll hopefully spend the night greetin’ the new year with our own personal kind of ball droppin’, if ya get what I mean.” He leers comically, and Rick just rolls his eyes. 

“You’re not comin’ to Greene Light Tavern tonight?” He asks, genuinely curious. 

“Your boy and I don’t play well together, Grimes,” Abraham says, his voice is rough but he won’t meet Rick’s gaze. “Especially when there’s alcohol in the mix.” 

Rick knows by now that he won’t get anywhere asking follow up questions on this matter, so he lets the conversation fizzle out with a non-committal grunt and ambiguous nod. Funny thing is, every time Abe talks about his history with Daryl it makes Rick feel a blinding sense of curiosity – and a part of him always wants to push the older detective down and scream at him until he gets the answers he desperately craves – yet when the subject comes up around Daryl, all Rick wants to do is protect his privacy. He hasn’t asked his lover about his relationship with Abraham Ford in weeks now, and he’s not sure he ever will again. 

It takes him a few minutes sitting at his desk, listlessly shuffling through paperwork, to realize that the tangled mess of emotions he’s experiencing over this matter can pretty much be boiled down to one thing: jealousy. 

He’s downright _jealous_ that Daryl and Ford have such a complicated past, and that he himself is ignorant of it. He’s not even sure why he feels it – he knows without a shadow of a doubt that nothing romantic had ever happened between the two men, but it still puts him on edge. It reminds him somewhat of how he’d felt at Grayson’s when Daryl had told him about his childhood; this blinding desire to protect his lover from hurts long since passed. He’s jealous, he realizes then, that Abraham had known Daryl before – when he’d still been the emotionally traumatized, snarling, wild kid that Rick always pictures when he imagines his lover younger. 

He wonders what he would have done if he’d ever been called to the Dixon house when Daryl was a child. He likes to think he would have saved Daryl from his father’s abuse. A darker, world-weary part of him knows that even if he could have somehow been there, he might not have been able to do a damn thing. He’s seen that too often in abuse cases – stuff just fall through the cracks sometimes. Abusers are too good at covering their tracks, have taught their children, through fear and manipulation, how to lie too well. And the system doesn’t always make it easy. He likes to think he would have saved Daryl, but he’ll never know for sure. 

The whole train of thought is painful and ultimately pointless, because Rick and Daryl are too close in age for that to have ever been a potential reality for them. For Abraham Ford, however, it’s not, and Rick’s considered more than once the possibility that _that’s_ exactly how the two men know each other. That Ford had been sent to the Dixon residence as a young, rookie cop and for some reason or another hadn’t been able to save Daryl from the pain of his father’s drunken rage. It would certainly explain the lingering anger on Daryl’s part, and the guilt on Abraham’s. 

“What the hell bent hound dick you starin’ at, Grimes?” Ford’s gruff voice pulls Rick out of his musings, and he realizes belatedly that he’d been eyeing the other man for a while now, trying to piece together his thoughts. 

“Nothin’,” Rick says easily, shaking himself out of it. “You got a copy of that stakeout proposal?” 

Abraham passes him the document, eyes still narrowed slightly in suspicion, but Rick pays him no mind. He is, after all, somewhat of a master at ignoring the trampling elephants in the room. 

***

“What the hell, Detective, you bring a _date_?” Rosita is the first one to greet them when they get to the bar that night, a little later than he’d planned, and her question would be easy to sidestep if Daryl had been the man at his side when he’d walked in. 

However, Daryl had gotten hung up at work and Rick, having stopped by his apartment to change clothes before heading out for the evening, had run into Glenn. 

_“Thought you were gonna be outta town ‘til after the new year,”_ he’d greeted the man when they’d met in the parking lot. Glenn had obviously been home for a while by then, getting out of his car with a few bags of groceries. 

His friend had groaned overdramatically. _“I love my family, man, I do.”_ He’d said. _“But if I was there another day I might have gone insane. Actually insane. Like, straight jacket and butterfly nets, the whole nine.”_

Rick had laughed. And then, remembering his earlier resolve to include Glenn in his growing web of people, had said, _“Glad you’re back. Come to a party with me.”_

It had only taken a moderate amount of friendly nudging to get the other man to agree. And now that they’re here, Glenn seems mostly at ease with the large crowd of people. He must be used to them, Rick thinks, because of the size of his family. 

“This here’s Glenn.” He makes introductions for Rosita. “A friend of mine. Glenn, Rosita.” 

They continue to make their way through the bar after that. It’s as crowded as it had been the night he’d come here to play poker, but it seems like everyone present tonight knows each other. He spots Eric and Aaron with a group of guys whom he assumes – based on clothing and body language – are all lawyers or similar white collar professionals. He sees Michonne deep in conversation with two men, and wonders if one of them is the ‘fuck buddy’ Daryl had mentioned who’s involved with the planning of the youth center. 

Maggie is behind the bar, which is crowded at one end with a group of people – a few of whom look enough like her that he’s probably not going out on a limb assuming them to be family. He motions in that direction, figuring he and Glenn could both use a drink. 

“Wait, hold up,” the younger man stops him suddenly, before they make it half a dozen steps. “Who’s _that_?” 

He’s pointing at the bar, but with the myriad of people in view it’s hard to say which one of them is causing Glenn’s wide-eyed stare. “Who?” 

“The girl behind the bar? Do you know her?” He sounds almost in awe, unable to tear his eyes away from Maggie – who’s got her head thrown back in a laugh at something a young girl with long blonde hair had just said. 

“Maggie Greene.” Rick supplies. “She runs this place. Owns it actually, I think, though I never got the story behind that.”

“Maggie,” Glenn sounds distracted, and puts one hand to his chin like he’s checking to make sure his face is still there. “I think I’m gonna marry her, Rick.” 

Now, if there’s one thing that Rick’s never believed in, it’s love at first sight. He just doesn’t buy it – can’t, because he knows how much work and time goes into making a relationship successful. He understands immediate attraction, even that bone-tingling feeling the first time you see someone that there’s going to be _something_ there. He’d said as much to Daryl – sometimes you meet people and they just _fit_. He’d felt that with Daryl – known from day one that the man was going to be important to him. But even if the love had grown quick, it hadn’t been immediate. Because there’s just no such thing. Of this he’s absolutely sure. 

And usually, when people talk about such feelings, he’s quick to chime in – with rationality and the friendly encouragement of hesitation, because he hates to see people get hurt by mistaking lust or fascination with something as fragile and precious as _love_. 

In this instance, however, the first thing that comes out of his mouth isn’t what it usually might be, in response to hearing something like that. 

In fact, the first thing that comes out of his mouth isn’t something he’d normally say at all, and he doesn’t even have alcohol to blame for it yet. “I kinda thought you were gay.” 

That, at least, jerks Glenn out of the trance that Maggie had apparently pulled him under. “ _What_?”

Rick scratches the back of his neck and shrugs. Glenn looks confused, but not at all insulted. 

The whole exchange sets the tone for the last night of the year fairly accurately. 

***

Daryl shows up about an hour later with a grease smudge halfway up his arm that Rick finds immediately because his lover had apparently taken his no-more-sleeves teasing to heart, consistently leaving his biceps on full display; even tonight, despite the fact that the air outside still has a bit of a bite to it. Granted, he’d taken off a leather jacket in order to display his navy blue t-shirt, but that’s only because he always rides the motorcycle. 

“Do you own a car?” Rick asks, as soon as the younger man is near enough. He stands next to the barstool Rick’s sitting at casually as he motions to a guy behind the counter for a drink. “You shouldn’t ride the bike in the winter.” 

“Fucking Georgia, Charger,” Daryl responds, slipping into the immediate conversation easily, not at all perturbed by the lack of formal greeting or Rick’s mild intoxication. “‘Til I see snow on the ground, it’s good enough weather for it.” 

“And what if it snows, then?” Rick presses. He can hear his own voice, more serious than teasing, but he doesn’t mean it. He hopes that Daryl gets that from the look in his eyes. “I happens, y’know. Global warming and all that. You got anything besides that Jeep that don’t run?” 

“Carol’s car.” Daryl says, and downs two shots of something that’s dark and that Rick hadn’t heard him request with actual words. He chases them with a beer, and sits down on the stool next to him, inching it just a smidge closer than it was. 

“And if Carol has Carol’s car?” That comes out weird, he notes. He’s on his third Whiskey and coke. 

Daryl squints at him, eventually huffing a small laugh under his breath. “You nag when you’re drunk, man.” 

“I’m not drunk.” Rick protests. “And I don’t nag. Just think you should own something more than fifty-two motorcycles.” 

“Three, Charger.” He corrects slowly, holding up his hand and waving as many fingers in front of him. “I own three.”

“You teachin’ people how to count, Daryl?” The girl with the long blonde hair comes up from behind them then, and when they turn towards her she’s got her hands in the back pocket of her jeans and looks incredibly at ease.

“Well some people never learn,” the hunter grumbles, and downs a third shot that had somehow found its way in front of him. 

The girl rolls her eyes and ignores him. “Hey, you’re Rick, right?” She says to him instead. “I think we talked on the phone the other day. I’m Maggie’s sister.” 

“Beth?” She nods, and Rick recalls her voice from the day Carl had found out about him and Daryl. 

“Yeah,” she says. “You shoulda told me who you were, I woulda pulled Daryl off the Mustang for ya.” 

“Fuck that fucking fuel pump,” Daryl mutters, but they both ignore him. Rick wonders how someone as sweet and innocent seeming as Beth Greene handles working at a garage with men like Daryl and Aaron. He’s heard the way they go on while they’re working on cars – it’s all dirty jokes, foul language, and not-so-clever innuendos. It’s not a sexist thing, he doesn’t think, she just seems so young and…clean. He can’t picture her standing around listening to a conversation about which various items you should and shouldn’t stick your dick into. 

There’s a sudden slap on his knee, and Daryl’s eyes are bright and firm when he looks up. “Pay attention to the lady, Charger.” He gripes, and Rick realizes that he’d been drifting a little. “You got a while to go yet ‘fore that ball drops and if ya think I’m lettin’ you pass out ‘fore midnight you’re _fucked_.” 

“Sorry,” he shakes his head, smiling an apology to Beth. He taps the side of his glass. “Stronger than I thought.” 

She brushes off his apology easily. “Hey, are you the one who brought that Glenn guy here?” 

“Your neighbor?” Daryl chimes in curiously. 

“Yeah.” He responds to both of them. 

“He’s been hanging all over Maggie since they got here,” Beth says this to Daryl, smiling mischievously. “And she’s about one Pina Colada away from finding him charming.” 

“Then hell, load her up,” Daryl smacks his hand on the bar enthusiastically. “She goes too much longer without gettin’ some it’s gonna dry up.” 

Most women Rick know would be repulsed or angry by such a declaration. Lori would have slapped him outright, he made a comment like that about anyone, let alone a member of her family. But Beth – sweet, innocent looking Beth – just nods at Daryl’s words and says, “You’re not wrong. I’ll have Johnny make her next one extra strong.”

Then she wanders off, tracking down one of the bartenders with a determined look on her face. 

“What?” Daryl asks, when he catches Rick staring at him. 

“You corrupted the shit out of her, didn’t you?” 

The younger man ducks his gaze, but Rick sees the grin. “Her daddy heard me talk like that ‘round her, or Maggie, he’d skin me alive.” He chuckles despite his own words. “But I don’t like treatin’ no one different, ‘less they ask me to. And Beth, took her some gettin’ used to, but she ain’t never asked me to quit it.” 

“You treat me different than you treat most people.” Rick realizes how true it is as the words leave his mouth. “Have almost since the day we met. And I didn’t ask you to. Well,” he amends, “not ‘til later.” 

Daryl half-smiles at him, lifts the side of his lip up a little like he just can’t help himself. It’s one of the most genuine things Rick has ever seen. His lover nudges their knees together, ever so briefly, and then averts his gaze to the bottle in front of him. “You were different.” He pauses. “Still are, I suppose.” 

Rick clucks his tongue and puffs his chest a little bit, feeling unduly superior. “I’m special, huh?” He remembers what the younger man had said a few days before; that, essentially from the very beginning, he hadn’t treated Rick like a run of the mill customer. 

Daryl rolls his eyes. “Deflate you’re fucking ego, Ace.” 

“Nah, I like it this way.” He nods firmly. “Like that you’re this…” he waves his arm up and down in front of Daryl, “Tough sonnova bitch that can shoot better than a trained sniper and probably kill me with your bare hands and eat glass and whatever else you do, but you let me see the other side of it, too. You talk to me and let me talk at you and, do you remember the first time I was here? Right over there,” he gestures to the other side of the bar. “You told me to never cash out my hand before I was done playing. Well.” He pauses, meets Daryl’s eyes, wide now from listening to Rick, “I wasn’t done. Thought I was, I really did. But I wasn’t. You were my wildcard.” 

“Fuck, Charger.” Daryl breathes when he’s done. 

Rick just shrugs; he’s at that perfect level of drunk where he’s well aware of what he’d just said, and had meant every damn word, but is too loose around the edges to be afraid of the consequences. He’s not ready to say _I love you_ yet. Not even when he’s drunk. Not even though it’s true. But he’s ready to say this: _you weren’t the hand I was expecting but you’re the last one I’ll ever play._

“Never used to talk this much about stuff like, Daryl,” he chuckles. “You’re different for me, too. If that makes you feel any better.” 

The younger man just blinks at him, looking mildly dazed. 

Rick smiles fondly at his lover, and tips back the rest of his drink before slapping the other man on the knee. “C’mon,” he hops off the bar stool, impressed when the ground doesn’t sway under him. “Let’s go play darts.” 

***  
***

The amazing thing about Rick, Daryl thinks, is that he lets him out of moments. He’ll say what he’s gotta say, make sure Daryl hears it, but he won’t trap him there. The archer finds this one of the most compelling things about the older man, because he hasn’t ever had a lover who’s been willing to do that. 

Which is why he hasn’t had many relationships last more than a few scattered nights here and there. Why he’s only ever let himself fall in love once before. And Rick…Rick is something he just hadn’t been prepared for. Not one goddamn bit. 

“Do you believe in love at first sight?” Rick asks him this in the middle of their third game of pool. They’d migrated there after Daryl had beat Michonne, Aaron, Rick, and six of Eric’s lawyer buddies at darts. 

The older man has been sticking to beer the past few hours, and isn’t nearly as drunk as he had been last time the two of them were at Maggie’s bar together. He’s still inebriated enough, however, that every time he opens his mouth Daryl legitimately has no idea what to expect. He’s perfectly content riding the wave of Rick’s impulsivity, though. He’s always been pretty good at keeping up with people who are less than sober. He blames Merle for that. 

“Nah,” he responds easily. “Believe in lust at first sight.”

Rick sinks a five-ball in a corner pocket. “Glenn told me he was gonna marry Maggie.” 

Daryl’s face scrunches. “They ain’t never met before, right?” The detective shakes his head. Daryl snorts. “Kid’s horny. Needs to get his dick wet. He’ll get over it.” 

Rick sinks another shot. It’s a solid, which is what Daryl is playing, but he doesn’t say anything. “Y’know I thought he had a crush on me? Glenn, when I first met him.” 

The hunter’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “No shit?” 

“Scared me, a little bit,” Rick misses his next shot, but lines up to take another. Daryl lets him. “But I figured it wasn’t ever gonna happen, so what’s it matter, right?” He chuckles. “Then I met you.” 

“And Glenn disappeared upstairs with Maggie ‘bout half an hour ago.” 

Rick’s head snaps up at that, scanning the bar intently. “Well I’ll be damned.” 

“Bet he gets her pregnant.” Daryl says. “One and done. _That’s_ how you force commitment.” 

“Would you marry me if you got me pregnant?” Rick asks, so deadpan serious that Daryl can’t help but laugh loudly. 

“Sure, sweetheart. I knock you up, I’ll put a fuckin’ ring on it.” 

The older man grins widely, leaning against his pool cue with his hips cocked out. “I think it’s your turn.” He gestures to the table. Then, in a moment of innocent confusion, adds, “I forget which ball I’m playing.” 

“My balls, if I got anything to say about it.” Daryl responds automatically. 

Rick snorts. “I’m alright with that. I like your balls.” 

Oh yeah, Daryl thinks amusedly; happy-drunk Rick is one of the best things in the world. 

***

“Aaron and I decided that if it came right down to it, Michonne would probably beat you in a fight,” Eric informs him a while later, stumbling over to the two of them and tossing an arm loosely around Daryl’s shoulders. “But _only_ ,” he gestures with the hand holding his drink, impressively not spilling any, “’Cause you’re a gentleman.” He pauses and looks thoughtful. “But not the creepy kind from Buffy.” 

Daryl huffs at his friend’s declaration. “Get off’a me, ya drunk ass nerd.” He doesn’t really mean it seriously – well used to how clingy Eric can get when he’s been drinking. Usually the other man reserves his affection for Aaron when he’s in a state like this, and Daryl’s been witness to their sickening levels of affection so many times by now that any situation in which he doesn’t have to see it is almost a relief. 

Rick, apparently, does not feel the same way; and Eric’s only been hanging on him for a few seconds before the detective steps into their space and glares menacingly at the intoxicated lawyer. “I’d recommend backing off.” 

Daryl catches onto the seriousness of Rick’s threat immediately, and instantly moves to diffuse the situation – knowing firsthand how quick a moment like this can go from calm to downright _fucked_ if he’s not careful. “Easy, Charger,” he says, trying his best to be soothing. He sidesteps out from under Eric’s arm and goes to Rick’s side. “He’s just playin’,”

“Yeah, man,” Eric steps back, holding his hands up in a moment of clarity. “Just messing around.”

Rick’s eyes lose a smidge of their threatening tint, but Daryl can tell the situation is still precarious. Pushing aside his own fears, he wraps an arm around Rick’s waist, subtly pressing his fingers into the jut of the older man’s hip and tugging him firmly against his side. He ducks his head and whispers in his lover’s ear, too quiet for anyone else to hear; “Everything’s okay, Rick.” 

The words and the touch seem to calm Rick considerably, and a few measured breaths later find Rick scrubbing his hands over his face and relaxing noticeably against Daryl. “Sorry,” he says to Eric when he looks up again. “Cop’s instincts and all that.” 

Eric grins widely, taking a drink and easing back. He looks casual again, but doesn’t try to move any closer to them. “S’all good, Detective,” he insists. “Might have to start a new debate, though. Who’d win in a fight – you or Daryl?”

Rick chuckles a little, and absently leans his head against Daryl’s. “No debate needed. We’re on the same team.” 

Rick says the words casually enough, but Daryl hears something telling in their delivery. And, drunk as he is, Eric must hear it, too, because he doesn’t press the matter. Moves on altogether, in fact, to a ridiculous debate about who would win in a fight: some dude named Dalek or a teenage vampire slayer. He and Rick spend a good ten minutes talking about that, until Aaron wanders over from wherever he’d been and steals Eric’s attention back. Daryl could give two shits about the conversation, but he doesn’t once try to pull away from Rick. 

***  
***

“Six! Five!” Everyone is screaming along with the countdown playing out on the television. 

Rick and Daryl are up on the platform part of the bar, unable to actually see the screen, but it hardly matters. Almost everyone else is downstairs – even Maggie and Glenn had reappeared (looking tellingly ruffled) to greet the new year – only Michonne and Mike are up here with them, separated from the others. And even they’re far enough away that Rick feels as though he and Daryl are alone, watching everyone else from their own little alcove of privacy. 

“Four! Three!”

Rick’s got his hands on the back of Daryl’s neck, waiting. 

The hunter smirks at him in the last moments of 2011. “Ya gonna kiss me, Charger?” 

“Two! One!”

The raucous cheers of “Happy New Year!” sound muffled as they meet for the kiss. The whole world’s happiness pales in the light of theirs. 

Daryl pulls away after only a few seconds, but he’s smiling warmly. “Ya wanna get outta here?” 

Rick lips his lips and nods. They’re out the door before the last of the confetti has landed on the ground. 

***  
***

Because Rick is a good guy, they stop by Glenn and Maggie before they leave to ask the younger man if he needs a ride home. Glenn, predictably, waves them off, the majority of his attention still on the girl that he’s apparently going to marry someday. 

Daryl snorts under his breath at that thought, because he hadn’t been lying to Rick before – love at first sight is a fucking myth. But still, Rick’s neighbor is content enough to stay put for now, insisting that he’ll find his own way home later. 

They leave just as the familiar, off-key sound of Aaron’s rendition of _Hakuna Matata_ starts up behind them. 

“Hey, since it’s just us,” Daryl stops Rick in the parking lot when his lover immediately heads for that stupid rental car he’s still driving, “ya wanna take the bike?” 

Rick’s eyes light up, and the hunter smirks at seeing it. Though he can’t help teasing him a little. 

“Unless ya think it’s too cold or some shit.” 

“No, we can take the bike.” Rick says. 

“Sure?” Daryl presses. “Might snow.” 

“Shuddup.” Rick grumbles, catching on. “You’re sober enough, though, right?” He asks seriously, looking concerned. 

“Takes a helluva lot more than that to get me loaded, Charger.” Daryl assures. When the older man still looks hesitant he adds, “Want me to say the alphabet backwards, Detective? Maybe walk in a straight line for ya? Hop on one foot?” 

Rick’s face clears. “Shut up,” he mutters again. And then, “I trust you.” 

So they mount the bike, Daryl insisting that Rick wear the helmet even though his lover protests. “I know these roads like the back’a my hand.” He assures. “Could ride ‘em with my eyes closed.” 

“Please don’t.” Rick sighs, but he takes the offered protection. 

Rick makes a noise when Daryl starts the engine; and excited, pleasure-filled little hum that gets Daryl’s dick twitching in attention. The hunter knows that his lover has never been on a motorcycle before, and steers with purposeful concentration in lieu of that. 

“Try to stay still,” he shouts at one point over the roar of the engine. “Can feel it when you move around.” 

“Sorry,” Rick shouts back. He tightens the hold he’s got around Daryl’s stomach, hands gripping tight at the leather of Daryl’s jacket. 

It only takes a mile or so for Rick to get used to it, though; slowly relaxing against Daryl’s back and lifting his head to look around. Daryl understands what he must be feeling. The first time you see the world going by in a rush, this close, is intoxicating. His breathing is labored against the back of Daryl’s neck, and the mechanic shivers ever so slightly at the sensation. 

There’s a road in between the bar and Rick’s apartment that has a deep curve, which Daryl tends to take a full speed, reveling in the thrill of the adrenaline. For Rick’s sake, this time, he slows considerably. It must still feel too fast to the older man, however, because the tight grip comes back and Daryl can feel the way his whole body tenses up. 

When he leans into the turn Rick follows his movements. It’s over quick, but even after he pulls back a little, his lover stays plastered to him. 

“Havin’ fun yet?” He asks, teasing and curious. 

Rick doesn’t respond, but Daryl feels it when his body relaxes. 

The rest of the ride is uneventful, and before long Daryl’s pulling into an empty spot in Rick’s parking lot. He cuts the engine and immediately turns around, eyeing Rick as he slowly pulls the helmet off and runs a hand over his wind-burned face. 

“So, ya like it?” He asks, oddly nervous. 

“Was fun,” Rick says, blinking rapidly a few times. “Don’t think I’d ever wanna own one of these, though.” 

Daryl grins. “Hell, man, that’s why ya got me.” 

Rick grins widely. “Yeah, I guess so.” 

***

They manage to get the door locked behind them and their shoes off before Daryl’s backing Rick onto the couch and falling on top of him in his haste to keep kissing. 

“Fuck, you’re hard,” he pulls back enough to say, loving the way Rick’s eyes go wide with desire at the words. 

“Maybe the bike was a little more than fun,” Rick concedes, tugging on Daryl’s jacket until he gets the hint and shrugs it off. 

“It turn ya on, Charger?” Daryl asks, leaning down and sucking at a spot on his neck. The other man bucks his hips. “Havin’ all that power ‘tween yer legs? Shakin’ from it?” 

“Fuck, Daryl,” Rick gasps. “C’mon. Want you to fuck me.”

“I will.” He promises. 

“Want it hard.” Rick insists, being more vocal about his desire than Daryl’s heard him yet. “Fast. Need you.” 

“Ain’t never gonna say no to that,” the hunter agrees. “Fuck, turn around.” 

He maneuvers them so Rick is on his knees, hands gripping the back of the couch. Daryl stands up and enjoys the view, palming over the older man’s still jean-covered ass. He presses right up against him, so Rick can feel the outline of his straining cock, and reaches around to undo his pants, hastily pushing them aside. 

Rick moves to kick them all the way off, and Daryl barely lets them fall to the ground before he’s back on the other man. He leans all the way over him and uses one hand to press against Rick’s chin, forcing him to turn his head and meet him in a sloppy, desperate kiss. 

He pulls back when Rick whimpers and presses two fingers against his lover’s lips. “Get’em wet for me.” He demands roughly. He obeys without pause. 

Daryl’s hips start rutting into Rick’s ass of their own accord; short, desperate movements that he can’t control as the detective sucks and licks at the fingers in his mouth, covering them with saliva. 

Too soon, he has to pull away. He’s on the verge of coming in his pants like a fucking teenager – having Rick so openly desperate is testing the limits of his self-control. So he pulls back just a little, and uses the spit-wet fingers to trace down the crack of Rick’s ass. 

The older man grunts when he inserts his first finger all the way, not giving him a chance to catch his breath before he quirks the digit ever so slightly and taps Rick’s prostate. “Daryl,” he pants. “Fuck, Daryl, fuck.” 

“Ya alright?” He asks, though he’s pretty sure he knows the answer. A quick graze over the other man’s cock, hard and dripping with pre-come, proves him right. 

“More,” Rick gasps. “More, please.” 

Daryl places a chaste kiss in the middle of his back, a direct contrast to everything else he’s doing. “Whatever you want, sweetheart.” 

He adds his second finger more slowly, but Rick’s having none of that, thrusting backwards onto the digit impatiently. Daryl punishes him – or maybe it’s a reward – by pushing against his prostate even harder, and not letting up even when the older man is all but sobbing at the overstimulation. 

His hips are moving like he’s trying desperately to get some friction on his dick, and Daryl pulls at his waist a little so he won’t be able to thrust into the couch cushions. “Need lube,” he grunts, his own dick painful at this point inside his own still-present jeans. 

He pulls his fingers away and Rick makes a desperate noise, thrusting his hips to chase the sensation. 

Daryl steps back a little more and lightly slaps his ass. Rick’s sudden intake of breath is decidedly telling, and Daryl decides that he’ll definitely play with that later. “You got lube in your bedroom?” 

Rick’s got his arms folded up on the back of the couch by now, with his head resting on them. Daryl can see the gleam of sweat all over the other man’s skin. He nods at the question. “Bedside table,” he croaks. “Hurry.” 

Daryl slaps the other side of his ass, a little harder than before. Rick’s hips buck widely and he moans loud. “Don’t touch yerself ‘til I get back, Charger.” He demands.

“I won’t if you _hurry_ ,” his lover snaps. Daryl smacks him one final time. “Think ya like that, huh?” But he doesn’t wait for a response before rubbing his hand over the heated flesh and saying, “Be right back.” 

He grabs a condom along with the lube. And then, with a slight eye roll at the sheer level of domesticity that goes into the move, also snatches a towel out of the bathroom. He’s back in the living room in under thirty seconds, probably, and Rick is exactly where Daryl left him – panting heavily with his ass in the air. He wastes no time at all getting back into position behind him. 

Daryl takes his own pants off then, thinking he might actually die if he doesn’t get inside Rick’s ass in the next minute. He throws the towel under the older man, so he won’t get come all over his couch, and then quickly rolls a condom over his dick. 

Rick picks his head up when he hears the crinkle of the wrapper, moving his knees a little so they’re even farther apart. 

“Look how bad ya fuckin’ want me.” Daryl says, and uses the lube to coat two of his fingers and press them back inside Rick’s hole, with the sole purpose this time of stretching the other man enough to take him. 

They’ve had sex a handful of times now, since that first night after Grayson’s, and it’s always been unbelievably good – the best sex Daryl’s ever had, and he’s had his share – but this is the first time it’s been this _desperate_. The both of them worked up so bad that they can barely breathe around their lust. 

Rick reaches his arm out then, scrambling to find Daryl. When the hunter leans forward enough, Rick latches onto his shoulder and tugs until Daryl’s plastered all over his back again. The kiss Rick initiates is more teeth and panting than anything else, but it gets Daryl’s dick dripping all the same. 

He’s lubed and in position seconds after it ends. He’s got one foot on the ground, the other on the couch for leverage, and a steady grip of Rick’s hip as he guides himself into the man. Rick sighs heavily at the feeling of being penetrated, his back bowing up into the sensation. Daryl pushes in steadily, not pausing until he’s fully sheathed in that blissful heat. 

It only takes Rick a handful of seconds to get used to it. He clenches around him so tight that Daryl gasps and smacks the side of his hip. “Stop that,” he pants. 

“Fuck me.” Rick counters. 

So Daryl does. 

He pulls almost all the way out and then slams back in, using his position hulking over the other man to his advantage. He does it again and again, Rick groaning loudly each time. Then, finally, he pulls a little on Rick’s thigh, canting the other man’s hips and then angling himself just right to hit his sweet spot on the next thrust. 

Rick yells, biting at his wrist to try to muffle to sound. 

“Uh-uh,” Daryl shakes his head. He puts his hand in Rick’s hair at the base of his scalp and cards his fingers through until he reaches the top. Then he goes back down the right way and gets a fistful of it in his hand, tugging forcefully. “Wanna hear you.” 

Rick nods readily. “Fuck me, please,” he gasps. “Keep fucking me.”

He complies. Rick had asked for fast and hard earlier, and Daryl’s going to give him exactly what he wants. He uses the full strength of his body and pump into Rick with short, brutal movements. And when he leans over slightly, gripping the back of the couch right next to where his lover is, the change in angle drives Rick wild. He bucks back into him, meeting him thrust for thrust. 

Within a few minutes, they’re both panting and sweating from the exertion. Daryl doesn’t once slow his movements, and Rick doesn’t ask him to. It feels like an embarrassingly short amount of time later that Daryl’s dangerously close to the edge, his balls drawing up tight against his body.

“Rick, fuck,” he gasps. “Ya close?” 

The older man nods rapidly, reaching behind him blindly and managing to find a grip on the back of Daryl’s wrist. “Yeah, so close. Close… _fuck_ ,” he cuts himself off at a brutal thrust. “Touch me. Need you to touch me.” 

Daryl doesn’t waste a second. He gets an arm free and wraps it around his lover, finding his cock immediately and gripping it hard.

“There, right there.” Rick groans loudly. Daryl continues to stroke the other man firmly, deliberately matching the pace of his hips. 

Finally, _finally_ Rick makes that noise – a breathy little sigh that means he’s about to come. Daryl provides one more powerful thrust at the same time he brushes his thumb over the wet slit of his dick. 

Rick comes with a shout. He doesn’t attempt to muffle it this time, and it echoes off the walls, telling the tale of their activities to every single one of Rick’s neighbors, but Daryl doesn’t give a single fuck. Not with Rick’s ass clenching around him impossibly tight. With that added friction, it barely takes Daryl another two thrusts before he’s coming, too. With a low groan he fills the condom. His hand is still on Rick’s cock, so he feels it when the other man twitches at the sensation. 

When it’s over, Daryl lets more of his weight fall against his lover, too worn out to hold himself up entirely. After a few long seconds of that, the two of them trying desperately to catch their breaths, Rick moves sluggishly to bat Daryl’s hand away from his dick, oversensitive from his orgasm. 

Daryl grins wolfishly against the other man’s neck and squeezes the appendage lightly. 

“Fuck,” Rick hisses. Daryl’s noticed that his lover only ever really curses when they’re fucking, and he can’t deny that enjoys being the cause of the foul language. “Stop that,” he chastises, though it sounds tired more than reprimanding. 

Daryl huffs a laugh against his skin but pulls his hand away as instructed. With a fair bit of effort, he then also moves off of Rick – causing the older man to shiver as the air hits the drying sweat on his back – and leans back until he can pull out of the other man. He does it slowly, holding on to the base of the condom, but Rick still flinches. 

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he mutters. He tugs the come-splattered towel out from under Rick and ties off the condom, tossing both items on the ground. Then he helps maneuver his lover until he’s sitting the right way on the couch. 

“Dammit,” Rick looks up at him with drowsy eyes. “M’gonna feel that tomorrow.” 

Despite his words, Rick looks content. 

“C’mon,” Daryl holds out a hand, and pulls the other man to his feet as soon as he takes it. “Fallin’ asleep on the couch sure as shit ain’t gonna help none.” 

Rick snorts, but follows him into the bedroom. “You’re a real considerate guy, y’know that?” 

Daryl barks a laugh at his lover’s teasing. He’s planning on getting the man sprawled out face down and naked on his bed and digging into those sore muscles with his fingers until Rick either passes out or gets hard again, but he doesn’t bother telling him that. Daryl’s always been a lot better at showing than telling, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Aaron and Eric’s meet-story: For the record, I’ve never heard of anyone being _arrested_ on a test drive – I added some extenuating circumstances to make that believable – but I have heard stories about people getting _pulled over_ on test drives. SO MANY stories.


	21. Simmering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay in chapter posting – I got distracted writing a happy little no-angst Rickyl story (check it out if you want; it’s loosely based on an episode of _Friends_ :). I also had work and other boring real life crap, buuuut…here we are again, finally.

***

Deer are most active at the beginning of the day and at the end of it. There’s a word for that, Daryl knows; some long, stupid, scientific one that he’d read once in a book at Grayson’s, but has long since forgotten. Sometimes he’s like that – can recall the definitions, the parts that matter, but not the words themselves. It’s why people always used to think he was as dumb as his brother and his daddy; he’s always had a hard time finding the words. He’d never minded other people assuming those things, though. Daryl didn’t owe them anything, and it was better back then, being constantly underestimated.

He makes a note to himself now, however, to look it up later. That word. Because if there’s one thing Eric has taught him over the years it’s that people are impressed by the big words; and he wants that for Sophia. Wants the girl to have an advantage in every single part of this world. She’s smart, Daryl knows that much already, but there’s a big difference between _being_ smart and _seeming_ it. Not many people can pull off both. He wants her to be an exception. 

“Do we have to shoot the deer?” She asks now, traipsing along next to him in the woods. Her footsteps are as quiet as Daryl’s. That’s just another advantage. “If we find one, I mean. Can we let it live instead?” 

These are the moments that are difficult for Daryl. Because a part of him wants to balk at the girl’s telling display of empathy: _“People will use that against you,”_ he wants to warn her. _“Toughen up or you’ll die out here.”_

But those are the things Merle had taught him, and he knows they don’t fit in Sophia’s life the way they had in his. Merle hadn’t been trying to hurt him – not enough to break him, anyway. Not like their daddy. His brother had known he wouldn’t be around forever, knew he’d take off the second he got the chance and leave Daryl to fend for himself. Merle’s never been perfect, but he _had_ tried to prepare Daryl for the day he’d have to survive alone, the best way he’d known how. And it’d worked. The youngest Dixon can still recall long stretches of time when he’d hid in the woods to avoid the worst of his father’s binges, and it had probably saved his life. 

Sophia doesn’t have to worry about that sort of thing anymore, though, and Daryl feels like any sort of replication of Merle’s lessons on his part would just hurt the girl. He wants to protect her – so badly he wants that, for her to grow up into the kind of person he himself will never be – but there’s also this longing in him for her to stay as innocent as she still can for as long as possible. 

“We don’t have to kill anything if ya don’t wanna,” he settles on saying eventually, already scared that he’s made the wrong call. “I’ve said it before; if no one’s starvin’, there ain’t no shame in comin’ home empty handed.” 

She smiles at him then, a small little thing that’s young and pure and grips his heart so tight that for an honest second he can’t even breathe. 

“Need to learn how to track, though,” he forces out a beat later. “And grow yerself a sense of direction. Can’t depend on that GPS shit, Soph. Never know when ya might not have it. Always have to know where you’re at, alright?” 

“Alright.” She agrees easily. She never fights him on much, and Daryl doesn’t know if that’s because he doesn’t ask much from her or because she’s afraid. She never seems afraid, he doesn’t think. And he’s kind of got a knack for seeing that in people. 

It’s coming up on dusk now, when the deer are most likely to be awake and moving around. He likes taking her out later in the evening like this. There’s never time in the morning – between Daryl’s job, Sophia’s school, and the fluctuating schedule of activities that keep Carol occupied, the mornings are always hectic. Evenings are slower and less intentional. Like Rick’s southern drawl after he’s had a few drinks. 

“How ya like havin’ Carl around so much?” He asks suddenly. And it’s probably not the right time, because he doesn’t like talking when he’s hunting – scares away the game – but then again they’re not really hunting anymore. Just tracking. Nothing getting killed tonight, and maybe it’ll even be better, if they spook the critters; give Sophia more chance to practice her skills. 

“He’s nice,” she says, smiling at the ground, her eyes still focused on what Daryl knows are day-old rabbit tracks. He’ll point that out in a minute. “We like the same books and TV shows, but his video games are way different. Sometimes we argue about that, but mom told us we have to comp-rise, so sometimes when we don’t wanna do the same thing, we play a game and whoever wins decides.” 

Daryl feels the side of his lip twitch upwards a little bit. “Compromise.” He corrects.

“What?” 

“Compromise,” he repeats. “Not comp-rise.”

“Oh,” she nods. “Okay.” 

“Y’know, it used to be jus’ me’an you and your ma all the time.” He presses. Before Sophia has a chance to respond he stops her and crouches down, points at the tracks. “These are older than the others. See here? Mud around them’s all dry ‘cause it rained last night but not today. Wanna look for somethin’ fresher.”

She scrunches her face at Daryl’s words, staring intently at the ground. After a few seconds she nods, and then scans the earth around her. “Like those?” 

Daryl nods at the fresh prints she points out. Probably a fawn’s, judging by the size of them. That might be a nice thing for her to see, if they manage to get a lead on it this time of day. “Yeah, follow them.” 

So she does, switching their course mid-trek. He’ll be impressed if she doesn’t get lost from the direction shift, but that’s why they’re out here; so she can learn. 

“Carl told me I was lucky that my mom was still alive,” Sophia says thoughtfully a few minutes later. Daryl waits patiently. “I didn’t know his wasn’t. I felt bad for him. Then I felt bad…I felt bad ‘cause my dad’s dead, too, but I’m not sad like he is. He said that doesn’t make me a bad person, because it’s different. He said his mom and my dad were different.” 

Rick’s always so worried that he’s doing wrong by his son. Daryl’s going to have to tell him about this conversation, put a few of those fears to rest. “He’s right.” He says now to Sophia. “There ain’t nothin’ wrong with you, for bein’ glad your old man’s not around no more.” 

They track in silence for another six or seven minutes, Sophia’s expression a lot more concentrated than it would be if her mind were just on trying to find an animal in the woods. 

“Were you sad?” She asks finally, glancing up at him only briefly. “When _your_ dad died?” 

That’s a complicated question for Daryl, because the day his dad had died…it _had_ been one of the worst days of his life. But for reasons that had nothing to do with the old bastard actually dying. He knows better than to get into the complicated details of that with Sophia, though. They wouldn’t be appropriate for a ten-year-old to hear. Instead, he plucks out the part that’s most relevant to her in this moment. 

“Day my daddy died, Sophia?” He shakes his head a little, trying to think of a way to phrase it that she’ll understand. “That was the first day’a my life I felt like I could breathe, without worryin’ ‘bout somethin’ draggin’ me back under the water.” 

She stops to look at him. Actually stops walking, for the first time since they’ve been out here, and stares up at him like this is the first time she’s seeing him. 

Daryl stops also, not entirely sure what’s going on in her head, but understanding that it’s critical. He wants to look away from her, because the moment is just so intense, but he knows that would be the coward’s way out. So he holds the stare until she speaks again. 

“I think that’s how I felt, too.” He expression is a mix of revelation and calm. 

Daryl’s not sure what to say, so he just nods. 

It takes a few more seconds of staring, but eventually Sophia breaks away and starts following the fawn tracks again. Daryl doesn’t know for sure what had just happened, but he knows it had been important. 

“I like it when Carl and Rick come over.” She answers his original question about twenty minutes later, breaking the silence that had drifted between them. “Rick makes you happy. And Carl’s fun.” She pauses. “I don’t wanna share my room with him if they move in, though. He can sleep in the basement.” 

Daryl actually sputters a little. “They ain’t –”

But the rest of the protest dies on his lips when Sophia finally spots the fawn they’ve been tracking this whole time. They crouch down behind a tree and watch together as a grown deer approaches the younger one, idly nudging its head affectionately while they trail the ground for something to eat. 

Sophia is in awe of the interaction and Daryl, try as he might, can’t find a word to describe the moment that’s more fitting than _beautiful_. 

***

“It’s been almost five months with the Charger.” 

Daryl turns around with a vicious glare that’s not entirely intentional. “ _What_?”

Dale’s eyes go comically wide and he takes half a step back. “I mean –”

“The car, Daryl.” Aaron grunts from the bay next to him, openly frustrated from trying to get the drain plug off a Focus without stripping out the whole oil pan. “He’s talking about the car, not Rick – son of a _bitch_ , who did the last oil change on this thing?” 

“The dealer, according to the sticker,” Dale responds to Aaron, and then glances back at Daryl. “Like I was saying; it’s been nearly five months with that car, and we’ve sunk more money into it than I can reasonably charge your…friend.” 

Aaron snorts at Dale’s hesitant word choice, but they both ignore him. 

“Told ya, you don’t gotta change ‘im for that gasket I got from Axel.” Daryl rubs at his chin even though his hands are covered in grease. “Asshole owed me a favor.” 

“Even so,” Dale presses. “It didn’t work.”

“Got damn close, though.” Daryl argues. “And he thinks another one’s gonna turn up in this week’s haul. Just need that and the last’a the wires. M’close, alright?”

“Car’s goin’ on thirty-six years old, and it was damn near destroyed by the time we got to it.” Dale rubs the back of his neck nervously. “It might be time you start considering the possibility that no amount of reman’d junkyard parts and elbow grease are gonna get this car back to –”

“Bullshit, old man,” Daryl interrupts, before his boss can even finish the thought. He’s frustrated and straight pissed at Dale’s assumptions. “Ain’t no such thing as a car that can’t be fixed.” 

“Yeah? You still got that Laredo in your backyard?”

“ _Yeah_.” Daryl snaps back. “’Cause I’mma get it to run one’a these days. Just you wait.” 

“Fine. But you can’t wait on _this_ ,” he gestures to the Charger. “I’m not saying you can’t keep working on it,” he holds his hands up in defense as soon as the younger man opens his mouth, stopping him cold. “I’m saying, pretty soon, you won’t be able to work on it _here_.” 

“Why the hell not?” Daryl snaps, though deep down he already knows. 

“I need the bay, son,” he says it gently, but with a finality that can’t be denied. “I can have Rick pay out for what we’ve put into it, and you can tow it to your house. I trust you can fix it, Daryl, I do. I just can’t keep it here indefinitely.” 

“Ford’s piece of shit 3500 was stuck ‘ere three months once, you remember that?” Daryl steps into the older man’s space, challenging him. “Didn’t get on my dick ‘bout _that_.” 

“Abraham’s truck was out back two of those three months,” Dale says calmly. “And ninety days is our standard limit on shop time. You know that.” 

Daryl turns his back on Dale. His whole body is vibrating with tension and anger. Without pause he squares his shoulders and whips back into Dale’s space. Aaron, who’d stopped working a few seconds ago to watch their interaction play out, recognizes that action for what it is – a sign that Daryl is precariously close to losing his temper – and moves over to them.

“Fuck you, man,” he gestures wildly, shaking Aaron away when he cautiously puts a hand on his shoulder. He backs up, though, when the younger man gets between them. He doesn’t want to hurt anybody – especially not these two. But his anger is hard to see through sometimes. “I don’t gotta be here. Tool box has wheels. I don’t _need_ you.” 

Dale sighs heavily. A small, rational part of Daryl’s brain that’s still working feels guilt over the older man’s reaction. It’s not fair that Dale is stuck dealing with Daryl’s shit, it’s really not. But he _does_ deal with it. With him. And sometimes that’s all it takes to get Daryl’s heckles rising – knowing he won’t get tossed aside or hurt for expressing himself. 

“Easy, man,” Aaron tries to soothe, using that same melodious voice he pulls out when customers start screaming about shit. “Look, how about this?” He looks at Dale, though he’s still got an arm out towards Daryl, like he’s holding up an invisible barrier. “You give us two more weeks on the Charger? ‘Til February. If it’s not done by then…” he turns to Daryl, “If it’s not done by then you know it won’t be long before it is. You can get it to your place and work on it there. That sound fair? Guys?”

Daryl still feels prickly, but he sniffs once and nods. “Fine.” He glares at Dale until the older man takes a deep, calming breath. 

“That’s fair.” He agrees. “You have ‘til the last day of January.” 

After Dale leaves Aaron faces him fully, finally dropping his arm. “Maybe ya oughta drop by Michonne’s after work today.” He says, and it sounds more like a plea than a suggestion. 

“Hangin’ out with Rick,” Daryl grunts, not meeting his friend’s eyes as they both go back to what they’d been doing before Dale had interrupted. “Not bailin’ on him so I can go pound on something.” 

“Might want to.” Aaron presses. 

Daryl stands up a little straighter at the inflection in the younger man’s words; feels himself getting riled up again lightening quick. “The fuck does _that_ mean?”

“What are you gonna do, man, hit me?” Aaron has this way of challenging him that always makes Daryl feel like absolute shit. Mostly, probably, because of that one time Daryl actually _had_ hit Aaron. That had nearly been the end of everything for him – almost cut his new life short long before he had the chance to grow it proper. He’ll never forget how close he’d come, how Eric’s strength had been the only thing that had kept him here. 

He’d vowed to never hurt either one of them again after that – to never hurt _anyone_ who didn’t deserve it, in fact. That’s the whole reason he’d found Michonne’s gym in the first place. So he could have a safe place to go to hit and get hit without fucking everything else up. 

Thinking about that, remembering it, makes a little bit of his anger fade, but it doesn’t take it all away. He snorts at Aaron’s question, but turns around and picks up a mallet; starts pounding a dent out of a steel wheel that had been left out to work on later. Even after a solid ten minutes of that – with sweat trickling down his back and the rim back to factory perfection – he doesn’t feel anything resembling calm. 

Daryl’s always been a bit of a risk-taker, disregarding his own safety for a variety of reasons and only reflecting on the extent of his stupidity in the aftermath of the moment. But this is not something he’s willing to gamble with. So, for the first time since they’ve known each other, Daryl picks up his phone and sends a text to Rick cancelling their plans. 

***  
***

Rick’s got a good feeling about this lead on Philip Blake, he really does. They can’t _prove_ that his hunch about Lilly Chambler being the mother of Blake’s daughter is correct – they still haven’t found any physical proof that Blake even _had_ a daughter, still working off Tara’s testimony and nothing else. But everyone that had talked to her – Abraham, Morgan, the Captain, Sasha, _everyone_ – agrees that she hadn’t been lying. So unless Blake had been lying to _her_ , which doesn’t make any sense given the circumstances, that much, at least, is accepted fact. The rest of it is all Rick’s gut, but the former deputy-sheriff is _so sure_. 

After Lori had died, Rick had stopped trusting his instincts when it came to…very nearly everything. He’d doubted himself over moving to Atlanta, asking Morgan for a job, parenting Carl, all of it. And he knows why, deep down he knows exactly what had shaken his faith in himself. He still hasn’t thought about it in solid terms yet, but he’s getting closer. Being with Daryl has strengthened his resolve to face his demons, and reignited his ability to have faith in himself. 

He’s doing better with Carl, his relationship with Daryl is flourishing, and this had been somewhat of a last step: learning to depend on his instincts as a cop again. He knows how guys like Philip Blake think and operate, knows that the man is a raging narcissist and that in the wake of the fall of the Chapel High Hill cult he’ll be desperately trying to seek out something familiar. Which is why, sooner or later, he’ll go back to the place Lilly Chambler’s body had been dumped nearly two decades ago. 

All they have to do is wait for that happen. They’ll catch Philip Blake through the man’s own inability to let go of the past. Rick’s sure of it. 

_“It’s worth the manpower if it helps us get this guy,”_ the Captain had eventually agreed to the round-the-clock stakeout proposal that he and Abraham – with Morgan’s help – had presented a few days after the new year. _“The feds are gonna spare us a few agents, too.”_ He’d hung his head and sighed deeply once, before picking it up again and looking resolved. _“I hope you’re right about this, Grimes. I’m sick of this bastard hiding in my own fucking backyard.”_

_“Hey, it ain’t all on you, man,”_ Abraham had clapped him on the shoulder once the order was sealed. _“All them profilers agreed with you, right? Behavior reading and all that jazz.”_

That had been a few weeks ago now, and so far nothing has come of their constant surveillance. Rick’s not surprised or deterred by that, though. Things like this take time, and usually a lot of it. It would have been nice to get lucky, but Rick’s been in law enforcement long enough to know that ninety percent of the job is paperwork and waiting. The rest of it more than makes up for periods that drag, but he hadn’t been expecting Philip Blake to fall into their laps without a little effort. Which is fine. Rick’s always been a pretty patient guy. 

He’s at his desk, finishing up a batch of paperwork on a domestic call he and Morgan had snagged this morning, when his cell phone chimes his text message alert. Before he even glances at it he feels an excited little flutter in his gut, just over the possibility that it might be Daryl. 

And it is Daryl, he sees once he picks up the device, but the words that greet him on the screen make him frown rather than smile: _Can’t go out tonight after all. Something came up._

He tries not to read too hard into that. He and Daryl aren’t teenagers – though sometimes the way the other man makes him feel takes him back to being young and in love for the first time. But, in reality they’re both adults with busy lives. _Something came up_ could literally mean anything. 

_Everything alright?_ He texts back. 

Daryl doesn’t respond to that for a long time. Five pages of a report, one coffee break, and a conversation with a rookie detective about gun maintenance sort of _long time_. 

When he finally does it’s with an uninformative: _Fine_. 

Maybe he’s not wrong to be worried, after all. Daryl’s not always the most communicative person, but he’s usually pretty open with Rick. This is different. Something about this _feels_ different. And all of a sudden he’s having flashes of Daryl being hurt and not saying anything – because Daryl seems like the type who would get hurt and not say anything to anyone. 

Or worse, Daryl revaluating the state of their relationship. Though that’s a stretch, Rick knows. Because his lover is a lot of things, but cruel isn’t one of them. If he’d up and decided that he doesn’t want this thing between them to grow any farther, he’d tell Rick. The detective is sure of that much. He’s also got a lot of faith in Daryl and their relationship in general. And while anything’s possible, ultimately, he knows his emotions aren’t one-sided. Daryl might not feel the exact same way he does yet, but Rick’s always been quick to love, anyway. And now that he knows some of Daryl’s past, he understands why the younger man might take to it at a much slower rate. 

And maybe that’s what this is, Rick considers. Daryl being afraid of his feelings. 

Then again, maybe he’s being presumptuous in assuming that one set of cancelled plans has anything to do with _him_ at all; Daryl’s got a pretty big life. But his gut is telling him that something is off. And, since he’d just recently resolved to start trusting that again, he refuses to dismiss the feeling. 

Which is why, right before he’s set to leave work that day, he calls A&A’s. 

“Daryl’s gone for the day.” Aaron tells him with a chord of anxiety in his voice that Rick knows he’s not imagining. 

“Too bad,” he tries to play it off as casual. “Was gonna swing by. Gettin’ off a little early today. You know if he went home?” 

The younger man takes a deep breath, his tension audible over the phone line. “No.” He responds wearily. “He went out to Michonne’s.” 

Rick feels his gut twist. “Her house?” 

“Her gym.” Aaron corrects, and the detective immediately feels foolish. 

“Oh, right.” But now that he’s thinking about it, that doesn’t make much sense, either. He knows his lover spends a decent amount of his free time training with Michonne, but he can’t reconcile his cancelling their plans to indulge in a hobby. “Okay. Thanks.” 

“Rick…” Aaron manages to pack a truckload of emotion into that one petered out sentence. 

“What?” He asks, not sure what to do with the information he now has and hoping his lover’s friend might be able to guide him. 

“You should stop by.” He sounds equal parts resolved and hesitant. “The gym, I mean. It’s on Walker Road right across from Home Depot.”

“Yeah, I know the area.” Rick pauses. “Is there something you need to tell me?” 

“No.” Aaron sighs, but his words come out confident this time. “Not like that, just…go there. You might learn something important.” 

***  
***

Daryl’s too worked up to get in the ring at first. He wants to, is itching for it; but Michonne takes one look at him and points to the heavy bag in the corner. He doesn’t try to fight her because deep down he knows she’s right. She can read him pretty well, after all the time they’ve spent together here. So he wraps his hands and just starts hitting. 

He’s not angry at any one thing in particular, today. Sure, Dale had pissed him off, and Aaron’s comments had gotten under his skin, but he’d been simmering long before that. Sometimes it just happens. His anger will come in waves – tsunami-like, at its worst – and wipe out everything else around him if he’s not careful. 

It’s always been like this. Since the first time his daddy had taken a belt to him. Since the day his ma had burned herself up in that fire. Since he’d met Abraham Ford. Since Merle had left home. Since he was sixteen and his whole life had fallen apart. Since he was twenty-three and his whole life had fallen apart again. 

Daryl has a lot to be angry about and sometimes, when he goes too long feeling good, it’s like his body will remind him. Not even his thoughts or feelings, so much; it’s mostly physical. A quivering under his skin that makes him think like the only way he’ll ever feel settled again is to claw himself to pieces. 

“Dixon,” Michonne calls out for him some indeterminate amount of time later. He’s soaked through with sweat and still barely feels like he’s taken the edge off of his rage. “Ring’s open if ya want in. Joey’s up.” 

Joey has the same color eyes his pa used to have. If Daryl looks close enough, he can see the same burning rage simmering in their depths, too. 

He steps back from the punching bag and squares his shoulders. “I’m in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this one lacks on the Rickyl love, but I really wanted to get something out before I dove back in to figuring out how I’m going to get these boys where they need to go next. As always, your thoughts are welcome!! :)
> 
> Oh, and a side note: Michonne's gym being on 'Walker Road' is, yes, of course, a play on walkers in the show. But also because the city I work in has a main street called Walker and I've always been amused by that ;)


	22. Demons and Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's past midnight, and I can't even see straight anymore for how many times I've re-read this chapter. I'm officially releasing it into the wild. Enjoy!
> 
> And, just a head's up: I did add a couple new tags. Nothing too game-changing, but I thought I'd mention it.

***  
***

Rick and Shane had been a year into working for the King County Sherriff’s Department the first time they’d gotten into a fight they couldn’t win.

They’d been chasing this man – Derek Shellman – who was a well-known dealer in the area, often peddling drugs to high school students. The hunt to bring him in had reached a peak after three teenagers had died from a tainted batch of meth and the media had latched onto the story; dubbing King County a ‘city unfit to handle even minor narcotic transgressions.’ An anonymous tip had gotten them a lead on Shellman two days into the manhunt, and through some twist of luck, Rick and Shane had been the first ones to arrive on the scene. 

They’d approached Shellman by the book. They’d rolled up on him in a public park, and witnessed an obvious deal going down before they’d made their move. Their guns had been drawn, they’d shouted the appropriate warnings, and they’d had the man trapped – literally backed into a fenced-off corner that had separated the park from the residential housing next to it. 

Shellman had been a thirty-something year old guy who had, for all intents and purposes, looked perfectly normal. The way most drug dealers look normal in order to blend in. Rick hadn’t been expecting the fight that had followed – couldn’t have seen it coming with a crystal ball and actual magical powers. 

Shellman had gone _wild_ at his and Shane’s approach. And Rick had been a cop at that point long enough to have seen a thing or two, but he’d never witnessed anything like _that_. The dealer had forfeited all thoughts of self-preservation and simply _lunged_ at Shane. Despite the fact that he’d had a gun on him. Despite the fact that Rick had also had a gun on him. Rick had shot at him, too; the second he’d made a move towards Shane he’d fired his weapon. He hadn’t even blinked. 

He hadn’t realized until later, much later, that his shot had actually hit its mark – tearing a bullet hole through Shellman’s shoulder. The criminal had continued to fight them as if he weren’t injured at all – the pure, _feral_ adrenalin of not wanting to be captured overshadowing his pain. 

Rick had wound up full-body tackling the man in order to get him off of Shane, but the fight still hadn’t ended until three of their fellow officers had arrived on the scene. It had taken five men and four bullets to get Derek Shellman to stop that day – and ultimately it had only ended in their favor because the fourth bullet had gone straight through the criminal’s head. Rick still remembers what Shellman had looked like when he’d fallen – eyes wide open, rage frozen in time. 

He and Shane had talked about that incident here and there for years – pondering to one another what had made Shellman so vicious that day. It had been fear and panic, of course, but of what Rick had never been sure. Being sent to prison, and getting the death penalty if he’d been convicted of those kid’s deaths, is what Shane had always said. But to Rick it had always seemed like something more. The cumulation of fears that hadn’t been based in anything as logical as the justice system. 

And now, years later, he’s arrested countless men for far worse crimes and has still never faced a ferocity like he had that day. He’d honestly never thought he’d see anything like it again. 

He certainly never imagined he’d see it in the man he loves. 

He’d walked into Michonne’s gym today with Aaron’s words echoing in his head – _“You might learn something important.”_ – and while he’d believed the other man, he never could have pictured _this_. 

It’s not exactly the same as Derek Shellman, but Rick understands immediately why his mind had provided him with that memory upon seeing Daryl fighting for the first time. 

_Contained like lightening_ , he’d thought when he’d first met Daryl. His instincts had been more spot-on than he ever could have guessed. He remembers Daryl standing in front of Sophia once, growling at him because he’d thought Rick a threat to the girl. He’d felt silly at the time, because his fear had seemed so unfounded – he’d had a gun, after all, and Daryl hadn’t – but it doesn’t feel silly now. 

Daryl is fighting the man in the ring as if his life depends on it. His arms swinging like a last salvation and landing with a force that shakes his opponent; his whole body moves in sharp bursts that come together into something fluid and absolute. It’s almost beautiful, Rick can’t help but think; it would be, in fact, marvelously stunning, if not for pure desperation of the blows. It’s that underlying chord of fury that has Rick frozen in place, locked onto the image of his lover fighting and remembering a criminal who had nearly killed him over a decade ago. 

***

“Sometimes it’s like this.” 

The words catch Rick off guard because he’d forgotten all about the rest of the world, the reality of where he was and the other people around him, in his single-minded focus on Daryl. 

He turns to his left where Michonne is standing. He blinks at her a few times, trying to reconcile her words with this moment. He comes up blank. “What?” 

She nods towards the ring, looking resolved and a little sad. “Daryl’s not the only one.” She says, speaking with an authority that Rick doesn’t fully understand. “The people who come here…sometimes it’s like this. Just anger. That’s why they’re here.” 

“I’ve never…” he shakes his head, doesn’t finish the thought. “How long’s he been here?” 

“A while,” she sighs tiredly. “It’s better than it used to be.”

And Rick doesn’t know if she means today or just in general. He knows Daryl’s been coming here for years – since not long after he’d moved back to Georgia – but he’s never really thought about it. Not the way he should have been. But he hadn’t known. 

Rick’s not an idiot, not by any stretch, and he’s seen the anger in Daryl before today. The violence. He’d seen it that first time they’d shot guns together. He’d inferred it from the story Daryl had told him about Carol’s ex-husband. And that day with Sophia at the shop, that had been his biggest clue. Yet none of that, even combined, could have ever showed him _this_. 

“I…” he glances between Michonne and the fight. “I didn’t…”

“Not many people do.” She smiles tightly when he trails off. “But this is how we are, Detective. How he is. If you can’t handle that you should walk away.”

Rick feels his expression go cold and his body still; the same absolute awareness and focus that comes with knowing you’re in the line of fire. “No.”

It’s a challenge, but he’s making it to the wrong person. Michonne simply nods once, accepting if not necessarily believing. “Okay.”

***  
***

“What the fuck are you doin’ here, Rick?” Daryl’s startled to find his lover in the otherwise empty locker room when he gets there. 

He’s sore in all the wrong places, his body tingling from the fight cut short. Joey had tapped out before Daryl had been finished. Finished with what he’s not entirely sure, but there’s still a burning chord of aggression under his skin. Seeing Rick calms him down and infuriates him further in equal measures. 

The detective is standing perfectly still in the dim light of the locker room, whole being focused solely on Daryl. 

“I just wanted to see,” the older man takes a deep breath and noticeably relaxes. It makes Daryl angry, because he shouldn’t think he’s safe. No one should ever think they’re safe. “I was worried.”

Daryl snorts at the words. “Ain’t nuthin’ to worry ‘bout, Officer Friendly.” 

That makes Rick cringe. 

_“You only call me that when you’re upset about something.”_ He’d said once. At the time Daryl had folded at the statement, accepted its truth. Today, he doesn’t feel like folding. 

“Yeah, I think there might be.” He counters, and takes a minuscule step closer. 

“What are you doin’ here, Rick?” Daryl asks again, louder this time. Threatening on purpose. “You gonna try’an fix me? You think you got me all figured out ‘cause you took a psychology class once? Gonna start talkin’ out your ass ‘bout trauma and self-hate and anger and whatever the fuck else? You think you know _shit_ about what those assholes did to me?” 

Rick’s head tilts curiously, and it’s only in the aftermath of his declaration that Daryl realizes he’d given away more than he’d meant to with his words. And that reignites his fury. “You need to get outta here, man. Just go.” 

“I’m not running away.” Rick says this so firmly that Daryl can’t help but think that his words are about more than him and this moment. “I’m not afraid of you.” 

“You fuckin’ should be.” The younger man growls. “You don’t know what I’ve done.” 

Rick just shakes his head. “I don’t care.” 

“You wouldn’t be sayin’ that if you had any fucking clue –”

“Shut up.” Rick interrupts, the unexpectedness of the demand slicing swiftly through Daryl’s anger. “I’m tellin’ you I don’t care. I’m not walking away.” 

Daryl takes a moment to process the absolute conviction with which his lover says those words; the firm set of his jaw, the glint in his eyes that reads almost like a challenge. Rick Grimes is a tough sonnuva bitch. Daryl’s known that since the beginning. But, there’s tough from surviving – like the way Carol is – and then there’s the toughness that comes with conviction. With believing in what you say, what you do, so completely that even when you’re not sure what’s going to happen next you know exactly how you’re going to handle it. Paul had been strong like that – stronger than Daryl had ever managed. And now he sees, with astounding clarity, that Rick is, too. 

Never let it be said, at least, that Daryl Dixon doesn’t have a type. 

“Fuck,” he growls, deep in the back of his throat. He hadn’t been prepared for this today. Hadn’t been ready to face the reality that he might just be in love with this man. And though this isn’t actually the first time he’s let that particular thought creep up on him, it feels different now. 

But he’s still so angry. He wants to punch something again, or maybe cry. He remembers the end of his relationship with Paul vividly, and it had nearly crushed him. Rick’s been getting closer and closer to his heart for months now, and deep down Daryl had known he’d eventually wind up _right here_ – in a perfect position to break him. 

Maybe that’s what he’s been so angry about lately. 

Falling in love through broken glass. 

“Daryl?” Rick is looking at him curiously, trying to gauge his emotional state. 

The younger man doesn’t give him a chance to figure it out. In one fluid motion he crosses the distance between them and gets his hands on Rick’s shoulders. The older man starts at the movement but doesn’t try to fight him. Within a handful of seconds, the hunter has his lover backed into a row of lockers, pinning his body roughly. 

The kiss that follows is more teeth and force than anything. Daryl pushes their bodies together so tightly that Rick barely has any room to move against him. He doesn’t try to pull away, though, and Daryl feels his erection straining against his hip in a matter of minutes. 

“Fuck, Daryl,” the detective tilts his head back just enough to catch his breath. Daryl takes the opportunity to suck an ugly bruise against the delicate skin of the older man’s neck. 

Rick’s hips buck at the sensation, but a moment after that his face falls into something like concern and doubt. He gets one of his hands free and runs it down Daryl’s torso – past the shirt that’s still damp with sweat from his time fighting, and over the cotton of his work out pants – until he reaches the noticeably limp curve of Daryl’s dick.

“You’re not hard,” his lover says softly, almost like it’s a secret. 

The younger man clenches his teeth until they creak and looks away. He maintains his hold on Rick’s biceps and stays silent. 

“Daryl…” his lover sounds impossibly compassionate. It makes him angry, so he pushes hard against him and uses the momentum to fling himself away from the other man. 

“Get outta here, Rick.” He says, echoing his own words from before but meaning them more this time. “Please. Just…please.” 

He still won’t look directly at him, but he sees it out of the corner of his eye when his lover nods a few times. “I’ll go,” he says softly. “If you need me to I’ll go. But I’m not running away from you, alright? I’m _not_.” 

Daryl shouldn’t believe him as completely as he does. Shouldn’t believe him at all, in fact. But sometimes hope can grow through anything, and Rick Grimes has already proved himself the exceptional sort. 

***  
***

Rick spends the next two days thoroughly distracted. He can’t keep his mind from wandering to Daryl. Their exchange at Michonne’s gym had left him more confused than he’d let on to the younger man. He’d thought he’d understood at first; Daryl’s anger had been easy to see, his words almost predictable in their aggression. 

Their brief tryst had felt, for a few moments, like absolution. He’d been expecting to get fucked, and get fucked hard, in that locker room. And he’d been ready for it, willing, even eager. There’s something about Daryl’s violence that had captivated him from the very beginning. And though he’s at odds with what that means about him as a person, he can’t deny that it’s there. Like something that had been dormant in him his whole life until he’d met Daryl. Something that had woken up and bloomed in the presence of the younger man. 

But when it hadn’t happened, when he’d felt Daryl’s telling lack of interest – painfully juxtaposed against his other actions – he’d had to pull back. And when his lover had asked him to leave, it had felt like such a plea. Like Rick would be violating him in some way if he’d insisted on staying. So he’d gone. Only now he’s afraid that he’d made the wrong decision. That maybe what his lover had needed _was_ for him to stay. To fight for him. 

He’s confused and afraid; the thought of losing Daryl after everything he’s been through already almost too much to handle. 

For a while, a couple years after Carl had been born, Shane had gone through this phase – though even now Rick’s not sure if that’s the right word for it – where he’d gotten incredibly violent with as many people as he could. He’d hit a suspect without prompting once, severely hindering the case they were trying to make against the man. Rick had yelled at him for that, and Shane hadn’t done it again. Instead, he’d gone out – to bars, most likely; seedy ones that were inherently dangerous – and picked fights with strangers. He’d spent months coming to the station with busted knuckles, cracked ribs, a broken nose once, and enough bruises that he was effectively useless in the field. 

Rick had cornered him about it eventually; demanded to know what was going on. Thing is, Shane had never told him, and Rick had never figured it out. His best friend had just said, _“I’ll get it together.”_ And he had. The fighting had stopped just as suddenly as it had begun; too quick for him to see the reason for it.

This is different, of course it is. He hasn’t known Daryl for as long as he’d known Shane, but he loves him just the same. More, even. Because Daryl has the capacity to love him back. 

Shane’s violence had come out of nowhere, been massively self-destructive, and then vanished before Rick had figured out the _why_. Daryl’s anger, though, has been around longer and will probably always be a part of him. Rick had thought he’d understood it – believed that Daryl’s abusive father had bred the emotions he sees in his lover from time to time. But what he’d been witness to yesterday had been something more. Something so much more that it had reminded him of Derek Shellman and a fight won only in death. And Daryl’s words: _“What those assholes did to me.”_ Not what _that_ asshole did. 

It’s a terrifying thought: that what he already knows of Daryl’s past is only a piece of what the other man has suffered. He refuses to let his mind drift through the possibilities, though, because he knows that if he starts down that path it’ll destroy him. So he settles on believing that someday Daryl will tell him. 

Just like someday Rick will tell Daryl what’s inside that shoebox sitting on the top shelf of his closet. 

It doesn’t feel right, this nothing that he’s doing, but he knows that for now it’s the only way. Because sometimes fear wins. 

Years ago, Shane’s violent spiral had terrified Rick; but his world is different now. Nothing about Daryl makes Rick afraid. Except the thought of losing him. 

Which is why, on the third day after their encounter at the gym, when Rick’s cell phone alerts him to a text message, he’s beyond relieved to see Daryl’s name on the screen. 

_Think you can get off work? I’m at your place._

He doesn’t hesitate in telling the captain he has to go home early. He uses the words _family emergency_ and it doesn’t even feel like a lie. 

By the time he gets to his apartment – less than half an hour after Daryl had texted him – he’s run through so many different possibilities in his head about what’s going to happen. The good, the bad, and the unacceptable; he’s only certain of one thing – he will not let Daryl walk away from him without a fight. 

His strength of conviction falls when he rounds the last corner on his floor and sees his lover sitting with his back against Rick’s front door. He knows as soon as he sets his gaze on the other man – legs drawn up loosely, toying with something that looks like a long stick – that he won’t need to fight for anything today. Daryl’s not here to break his heart. 

When he’s finally there, standing right in front of him, Daryl looks up. His eyes are swimming with remorse and affection. Rick smiles at him softly. “You wanna come inside?” 

***

The first few minutes are awkward. Daryl shuffles his feet and has a hard time maintaining eye contact. Rick just smiles at him. He takes a few moments to rid himself of his work clothes; unclips his gun holster, sheds his jacket and tie, undoes the first few buttons of his work shirt. 

He directs Daryl over to the couch – a large, plush thing that Glenn had actually helped him pick out a few months back, after Carl had started complaining about the old one digging springs into his back. He sits down first, letting Daryl decide how close he wants to get. The younger man chooses a spot that’s near him but not touching. He sets the stick thing that he’s been fiddling with this whole time down on the coffee table and Rick finally gets a good look at it. 

“Is that an arrow?” 

Daryl just nods. “For my crossbow. Found it in the backseat’a Carol’s car.” 

Rick accepts his lover’s words. Adds, “I’ve never seen you shoot a crossbow. Is it the Robin Hood kind?” 

Daryl actually chuckles at that, low and genuine. Rick doesn’t even care that he’s being laughed at – hearing the ease in his lover’s tone is well worth the fleeting embarrassment. “It’s a Horton Scout HD. One hundred and fifty pound draw. I’d kick Robin Hood’s ass.” 

Rick laughs, too. He just can’t help it. “I can’t wait to see that.”

Daryl shoots him a side glance then, eyes narrowed in something like suspicion. 

“What?” The detective asks, sensing that the moment is about to lose any semblance of light-heartedness. 

Daryl shakes his head, dismissing Rick’s curiosity. He focuses on a spot on the other side of the apartment, his shoulders drawing up in a visible sign of tension. 

All at once, Rick thinks he understands. “I was kinda afraid when I got your text.” He says carefully, noting the way Daryl shifts slightly so he can hear him better. “Thought you were comin’ over here to try and end stuff between us.”

Daryl inhales sharply but still doesn’t speak. 

“Wasn’t gonna let you, by the way.” Rick adds, shooting for causal and managing to get pretty close. “Not if you tried to do it for some dumb reason, anyway.” 

“Don’t wanna end things.” The words get caught in a net of southern drawl and insecure mumbling, but Rick still hears them plain as day. 

“Good,” he says firmly. “’Cause I really don’t, either.”

Daryl hesitates for a moment, seems to debate with himself about saying something. “But what about –”

“I don’t care.” Rick cuts him off, much the same way he had a few days ago. Before the younger man can protest, he keeps going. “Hey, you remember that night at Grayson’s? You remember what you said to me?” 

“Said a lotta shit that night.” Daryl grunts, still carefully reserved. Rick’s heart aches for this man and all the pain lingering from his past. 

“You said you weren’t gonna run off just because I needed a hug.” Rick smiles, remembering the moment. His emotions had been all over the place that night – overflowing from telling the story of how Shane had died for the first time since he’d left King County. 

“That ain’t the same thing.” Daryl objects immediately. Rick’s starting to realize that he does that sometimes out of habit more than actual conviction. 

“Nah,” he agrees easily. “Ain’t the same ‘cause we aren’t the same. Doesn’t matter, though. I’m not running away just ‘cause you get pissed off sometimes.” He places a hand on Daryl’s knee and squeezes until the other man looks at him. “I’m not.” 

Daryl’s shaking his head. “I gotta fight, Rick. I have to. Gotta hit shit somewhere like that, where it’s safe. Otherwise I’ll ruin everything.” 

The detective accepts his words, nods easily at hearing them. “Okay.”

Daryl’s eyes narrow. “And sometimes I just hafta be alone. I go hunting. Down by Ramset Lake. I’ll stay there for days, sometimes longer. Can’t deal with anybody else. It’s just…”

“Okay,” Rick repeats after the younger man trails off, pitching his voice more soothing than before. “That’s okay. I can deal with that.” 

“I’ll never hurt you, Rick.” This time Daryl’s the one initiating the eye contact; holding onto it for dear life. He reaches down and wraps his own hand around Rick’s, still resting on his leg. “ _Never_ , alright? I might be a fucking asshole sometimes, but I’ll never fuckin’ do nothin’ like that to you.”

Rick has to blink a few times in the wake of his lover’s declaration. When he finally overcomes the shock of it, he feels absolutely incredulous. “I _know_ that, Daryl. Jesus. I’ve never been afraid of that.”

Daryl swallows thickly and nods, though he doesn’t look convinced. 

“Hey,” Rick finally scoots a little closer, reaching out and cupping the side of the younger man’s face. “I’m afraid of a lot of stuff,” ghosts, mostly, “but I’m not afraid of you.” 

“Should be,” Daryl sniffs, but his sentiment comes accompanied with a little half-smirk, “I could put you down easy.”

Rick smiles. “Show me.” He says, the words getting caught upon delivery and coming out rougher than he’d intended. “Take me to bed.” 

Daryl nods once, and then again a moment later with a more resolved expression. He stands up first, reaching down and grabbing Rick’s hand. The detective holds on tight without pause. 

At this point, he’d follow this man anywhere. 

***

They’re on the bed mostly naked – save Daryl’s t-shirt and Rick’s boxer shorts – with the younger man slotted between Rick’s thighs, grinding together at a relatively relaxed rate, when Daryl pulls back suddenly and bites his lip, staring down at Rick with a thoughtful, if not slightly anxious, expression. 

Rick reaches up and cards his hand through his lover’s hair. “What’s wrong?” His words are a whisper. 

The sun is still high in the sky, shining through the bedroom window and casting a soft glow on the man above him. 

“I want you to fuck me.” Daryl breathes, and the request has Rick’s breath catching in his throat. 

Immediately he shakes his head. “I told you, I’m not afraid of you or –”

“Not about that.” Daryl cuts him off. His expression is gentle. “Just want it.” 

The statement is so simple that Rick has a hard time finding an argument against it. Daryl’s staring at him with an ease and confidence that he’s certain he’s never seen in him before. 

He knows then that he’ll never be able to deny him anything. “Okay,” he nods, smiling gently. “Yeah. Absolutely, yeah.”

Because now that it’s on the table, he can’t deny that he’s been looking forward to this. “How do you wanna…?” He trails off because Daryl still has his shirt on. Sometimes he leaves it on when they have sex even though Rick has already seen his scars. Sometimes he denies the older man’s requests to shower together because he doesn’t feel comfortable, in that particular moment, revealing his body. Sometimes the demons that Daryl’s forced to carry on his back every day are larger than the two of them. Rick hates that, but he understands. His ghosts are just as powerful. 

So he watches Daryl and lets the younger man decide on their position. They wind up totally naked – both of them, Daryl’s shirt getting tossed aside somewhere because apparently today isn’t one of those days when he feels insecure about himself – with Daryl on his back leaning against the pillows and Rick above him. The mirror image of how they’d been before. 

Rick starts with tiny licks and nibbles down his lover’s body, stopping to pay special attention to his nipples, and then again to his hipbones – perhaps his favorite part of Daryl’s anatomy. Save those broad shoulders and biceps. And that little mole above his lip. And the tattoo on the juncture of his thumb of the North Star. And his eyes. 

Basically every part of Daryl is his favorite part, and he dedicates himself today to worshipping every single bit of him. Until his lover is strung out on the sensations and pleading with him to do something more, anything at all. 

Rick smiles fondly at the request. “I like you like this.” He shares, finally reaching down and fisting the other man’s leaking member in his hand. “Like knowing that I can make you as crazy as you make me.” 

“Always been able t’do that, Charger,” Daryl assures him around a few wild pants, as his hips buck into the sensation.

Rick’s heart feels lighter than it has in days at those words. Not because of their content– as he’d kind of had a feeling about their mutual ability to drive each other wild, and had only been teasing with his own words – but because it’s the first time Daryl’s called him _Charger_ in three days. 

_I love you so much._

“You ready?” He whispers, snagging the lube from the bedside table and quirking an eyebrow, offering his lover an out if he needs it. 

“Yeah,” he nods firmly, spreading his legs a bit wider. “Do it.”

So Rick does. He makes sure that it’s warm first, before carefully dragging the tip of his index finger down the crack of Daryl’s ass. The younger man has his legs drawn up, feet planted firmly on the mattress, offering himself to Rick in a way that feels like a lot more than sex. 

His breath hitches when Rick’s finger slides in, but he doesn’t break their gaze. In only moments he’s adding a second finger. Daryl winces a little when Rick starts scissoring them. “You okay?” He doesn’t pull back but he does stop moving. 

Daryl lets out a single, long breath. “Been awhile.” He grunts, clenching down slightly and making Rick groan. “You’re good.” 

So he continues. Two fingers become three, until Daryl is shifting his hips restlessly and Rick smirks because he knows exactly what his lover is looking for. He quirks his digits until he brushes over the hard nub of Daryl’s prostate, reveling in it when the younger man arches his back and gasps. 

“Fuck, right there,” he says, grabbing onto Rick’s shoulder with one hand and fisting the bedsheets with the other. “Right fucking there.” 

“You ready for me?” The older man asks a few minutes later, when Daryl’s precariously close to coming on just his fingers alone. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Fuck yeah, Charger, do it.” 

His voice is radiating excitement, and Rick can’t help but wonder exactly how long _awhile_ has been, and if the last person who was inside Daryl like this had taken the time to appreciate how gorgeous the hunter is, how beautiful he becomes in these moments of vulnerability. 

It takes less than a minute for Rick to slide the condom on, lube himself up, and carefully press into Daryl for the first time. His lover throws his head back at the sensation, using his hands now to grip firmly at Rick’s ass, guiding his movements in a way that feels more like desperation than demand. 

Once he’s fully seethed he lets out a shaky breath. After a moment, Daryl meets his stare with a watery, heartfelt one of his own. “Not leaving you,” he whispers, clenching down around Rick’s cock at the same time he reaches up and gets firm grip on the back of his neck. He pulls until their lips meet. 

Rick can’t help it when he starts rocking into Daryl; the younger man is so irresistible like this. He’s made to be owned by Rick as absolutely as Rick is made to be owned by him. 

_I love you more than anything._

“Never gonna leave you,” he says again, when he finally pulls out of the kiss – breaking it with a gasp when a slight shift causes Rick to nail his prostate. His breath is short and his face is flushed. 

“Me, neither,” Rick vows. If he can’t declare his love quiet yet he _can_ say this. “Want you. Always.” 

Daryl nods a few times rapidly, and then eventually shifts his hips again. “C’mon,” he prompts. “Move.” 

Rick starts thrusting in and out of the man, shallowly at first, groaning every time he gets enveloped by his lover’s tight heat, and then faster at his lover’s prompting. Daryl, for his part, lets himself go; hiding nothing about how thoroughly he’s enjoying the sensations. He meets each of Rick’s thrusts enthusiastically, but otherwise cedes control to the older man entirely. 

The implication of trust is almost overwhelming, and in the haze of lust and heat, Rick can’t help but think that the rest of it doesn’t even matter. What he doesn’t know about Daryl, what Daryl doesn’t know about him…it’s a fleck of dust on a shelf full of nothing. 

Their passion builds with every movement, every thrust and gasp, until eventually the moment crescendos and they both come – Rick first, buried deep inside Daryl’s body, nearly overwhelmed by the physical feelings and their emotional implications. The younger man follows a few moments later, the tight clench of his hole around Rick’s already spent cock overstimulating the detective in the best possible way, causing his whole body to vibrate. 

For a few minutes afterwards he just lies there on top of Daryl; the hunter insisting that he’s not too heavy. They lay panting one another for a while; panting, at first, and then exchanging lazy kisses and trailing tired fingers over sweaty skin until Rick finally slips out of him. Daryl bites his lip at the loss, but Rick leans down just enough to kiss it free. 

That makes Daryl smile; his eyes crinkling up in the corners, with no trace of anger lingering anywhere in sight. 

For now, that’s enough.


	23. The More Things Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LONG NOTE BECAUSE I’M FEELING CHATTY:
> 
> This chapter officially marks the 100,000 word count for this story and holy shit guys, that’s more words than I’ve ever put into anything. Ever. Lemme tell you a thing, though: I, quite honestly, am not even surprised. I know I started posting this during the hiatus, but I actually started writing it way, WAY before that. And I knew as soon as I started typing that it was gonna be an epic one. My original plan was to actually get the whole thing written and _then_ start posting, but, well, I got impatient :) 
> 
> I know it takes me a while to get chapters out sometimes, now that I don’t have a bank of stuff already written, but it’s never from a lack of want to continue creating stuff in this universe. I’m over a hundred thousand words into this world, and can easily see going another hundred. I have documents full of tidbits and physical paper piles of notes. I have a completed one-shot prequel that I can’t post yet because reasons, but it will see the light of day eventually. 
> 
> The idea for this story came to me, in glaring detail, one day over a year ago while I was driving home from work. I started writing it during a brief stint of jury duty (HELL YEAH CIVIC OBLIGATIONS). And I’ve never looked back. So, basically, I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who’s been reading this – commenting, leaving kudos, even just quietly enjoying in the background, because writing this story is so much fun for me, but having people read it and enjoy it and get something out of it…that’s a whole other flavor of awesome, and you guys truly, without question, are the best. 
> 
> Also, to anyone who might be reading this story in the future – like, maybe Walking Dead has hit season 9 and you’ve just found the fandom and you clicked on this story because you saw it was super long, or you liked the tags, and you just kept on going: 1. WELCOME; it’s never too late to fandom with us, 2. If time travel is a thing in your world, please come warn us about the season 6 finale. PLEASE, 3. If time travel is not a thing (*wink*), just continue to enjoy, and know that I’m writing to you from the future right now and that fills me with an immeasurable sense of giddiness and I don’t care if this story if seven years completed, please comment and talk to past!me. It’d be so cool. I guarantee future!me still his comment email alerts set up.

***   
***

“What’re you looking at?” Carol asks the question quietly, taking a seat next to where he’s perched on the steps of the back porch.

He grunts in response, not sure of the right words to use and afraid of getting it wrong. Dusk is settling over them fluidly, and if Daryl closes his eyes and breathes just right, he can imagine a hundred other days that had ended just like this. Not the contentment he feels, or the safety – none of the good stuff – but just the end of the day. Because no matter what happens in the middle hours, days always start and stop exactly the same way. 

“I have to get Rick’s Charger towed up here next week.” He says to his friend, instead of answering her question directly. “I thought I had the wiring shit figured out, but I fried half a circuit yesterday. Got the ampage all jacked up. Might have to jerry-rig the fuse box.” 

Carol nods slowly, and even though Daryl’s not looking directly at her, he can still sense the expression on her face. “Have you told him yet?”

“No.” 

She waits for a few minutes, gives him a chance to say something else, but he doesn’t. There’s not much else to say. Rick’s Charger wasn’t meant to last as long as it has; doesn’t have the constitution of a classic the way the ‘74’s or the ‘89’s do. Just a few years wrong on either end. 

Luck of the draw. 

“Sophia’s been asking me questions.” Carol says then, quietly into the fading daylight. 

Daryl’s interest is immediately piqued. “’Bout what?” 

“About how long we’re going to stay here, living with you.” 

Daryl turns towards her then, his eyes narrowed. “She wanna leave?” 

Carol shakes her head. “No, she loves it here.” 

He nods once, easily. “Okay.” He waits a few beats, not entirely understanding. “So?”

“She just…she remembers what I told her when we first came here.” Carol sighs. “That it was going to be temporary. That we’d stay for a few weeks. A month, tops.” 

“Shit changes.” 

“That it does.” Carol nods. She glances out over the backyard – hers now, too, as much as Daryl’s. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with Rick these days.” 

Daryl makes a ‘pssht’ sound and rolls his eyes. “What, you jealous?”

Carol looks at him for a moment, intense enough that the hunter feels like everything between them is on the cusp of shifting irreparably; but then she nudges their shoulders together, a tiny grin crossing her features like a playful white flag. 

“I won’t pretend to know all your secrets, Daryl,” she says, still smiling despite the intensity of her words, “but I do know that whatever it is you’ve been carrying around with you all these years...it’s not so tough anymore, for you. Not like it was, before he was around.” 

Daryl takes a breath so deep that it makes his lungs hurt. “Yeah.” He says simply, because he’s no longer in a position where he can deny it. 

“Yeah.” She repeats, shaking her head a little. He’s still not great at talking all the time, probably never will be, but the people in his life, all of them by now, have accepted that about him. 

It’s a weird sensation – to know that he’s wanted despite his faults. 

“You two ain’t leavin’,” he adds a few minutes later, watching the shadows as they stretch out over the lawn. “Me’an Rick…that ain’t got shit to do with you and your girl.” 

Carol exhales then, and it sounds suspiciously like relief. He glances over at her again, expression purposely insulted. “You think I’d kick y’all to the curb so I could get laid easier?”

“No,” she sighs, because she knows that he doesn’t mean those words. She also knows that, deep down, he kind of does. “Just…it feels different now.”

Daryl nods because she’s not wrong. For a while, after Sophia and Carol had moved into this house with him, it had been like a bubble. The three of them against the whole fucking world. For weeks, Daryl was the only person either of them had any contact with at all. Sophia hadn’t been in school, and Carol had been too hurt, and too scared, to even leave her bedroom. 

He doesn’t like thinking about what would have happened to the two of them if he hadn’t been around. He has complete faith in Carol’s ability to keep her daughter alive, but at what cost to her own sanity he wouldn’t have wanted to find out. 

“It _is_ different now.” Daryl nods easily. He’s been feeling rather peaceful as of late. He’s accepted the fact that the Charger won’t get finished at Dale’s, and he’s okay with that. It’s better that it ends here, anyway. The shop had just been the beginning. “Don’t change nothin’, though.” 

“I don’t think you know what _different_ means.” She says teasingly. 

He chuckles a little, feeling light in a way he usually only does when Rick’s around. “Shuddup,” he grumbles, though he makes sure that she can tell he doesn’t mean it. “Tell your girl to quit her worryin’, alright? You two aren’t goin’ anywhere. Not ‘til you’re damn good’an ready.” 

Dusk turns to night before Carol speaks again, and by then Daryl’s got his eyes closed, remembering a thousand days that had happened before and picturing and thousand and one more yet to come.

“Thank you.” She breathes her words into the darkness.

To Daryl, they sound brighter than the sun. 

***  
***

“Jesus Christ, Carl, are you old enough to be watching this?” Rick asks through a grimace, seconds after Amy Pond’s baby disintegrates into a literal puddle of goo in her mother’s arms. 

“Shh!” His son responds, waving an arm in his direction frantically. 

Rick, against his better judgement, continues to let the episode of Doctor Who that his him seriously wondering if this show is suitable for children play out in front of them. A few minutes later, he has to admit, he’s as hooked on the tension of the upcoming reveal as his son is. 

Rick’s been watching this show with Carl on and off for a few months now, and all he can say for sure about it is that it’s morally upstanding, complicated as hell, and absolutely addicting. And now, as an episode that was obviously a finale, even if he and Carl are watching it way after the fact, continues on, Rick finds himself watching with bated breath as an actress he vaguely recognizes from an episode of Law and Order, says, _“Only they don’t have a word for pond, because the only water in the forest is the river.”_

“Holy shit, she’s their _kid_?”

“Dad!” Carl all but screeches, obviously putout at the interruption. 

They’re both distracted a heartbeat later when River Song reveals the true nature of her identity and the dramatic, yet hopeful, music begins its telltale swell. 

“Sophia said this was a good episode,” Carl is grinning ear to ear once the final credits start rolling. “Rory’s so cool when he’s the Last Centurion. Do you think River ever got to have a normal life? Do you think she and the Doctor’ll get _married_? Do you think Rose will ever come back?” 

Rick blinks a few times, trying to clear his mind of headless monks and exploding avatar babies. “I don’t know,” he says carefully a few seconds later. Then he thinks about it more. “I hope they bring Jack back.” 

“Oh yeah!” Carl lights up. “He was one of my favorites. Sophia’s mom won’t let her watch Torchwood but I read about it online and it sounds _awesome_.” At his father’s obvious confusion, Carl adds, “It’s a spinoff show with Captain Jack.”

“Sure,” Rick agrees with an easy nod that he’s absolutely faking. Here he’d been thinking that a British science fiction television series would be easier to engage in with his son than the video games he plays – all of which seem to have massively complicated storylines of their own. Boy had he been wrong. But then again, parenting is nothing if not an endless cycle of compromises and learning. 

Carl spends a while after that on the computer in the living room, excitedly typing – possibly to Sophia – in between long stretches of staring intently at the screen, reading things about Doctor Who, most likely. It’s a little past the time that Rick would usually start insisting that Carl go to bed, but it’s Friday night and his son is obviously too hyped up from the show to even consider sleep. 

“Don’t forget,” he says gently, a guiding hand instead of an iron fist, “You still have to get up early tomorrow.” 

Carl nods distractedly, not tearing his focus away from the computer, and Rick sighs. Carl, after much debate amongst the two of them and with a lot of encouragement from a few of his teachers, had decided to join the local Boy Scouts. And tomorrow they’re going to be going on their first camping trip. 

Initially, the thought of his son alone in the woods with a bunch of people Rick barely knows had scared the absolute shit out of him – overprotectiveness because of what Carl has been through already or just natural paternal fears he hadn’t been sure, but whatever it was had him running background checks on every single adult that would be attending the outing. 

Rick runs background checks on people way more often than should, technically speaking, but it’s the one benefit of his job that he’s never minded taking egregious advantage of. 

When every single one of those had come back clean, with no red-fags, he’d calmed considerably. However, he couldn’t help that he was still a little on edge about the alone-in-the-woods thing. 

Daryl, however, had managed to take care of that part. 

After he’d shared his fears with his lover, the younger man had asked for the exact location of their trip, and when Rick had pulled the coordinates up on his phone Daryl had grunted once, shuffled the detective over to Carol’s car, and started driving before Rick had managed to even blink around his confusion. 

_“They don’t take these kids out nowhere real dangerous,”_ Daryl had told him during the drive. _“They stick to well-known camping areas. For the parents mostly. Suburban shitbags who don’t know nothin’ ‘bout survivin’ in the wilderness.”_ He’d paused abruptly and shot Rick a fleeting glance. _“No offence.”_

Rick had laughed easily. _“None taken. You’re not wrong.”_

_“Carl probably knows more ‘bout huntin’ and campin’ now, just from hangin’ ‘round the house, than half the idiots that’ll be tryin’ to teach ‘im shit.”_ Daryl had added. 

Rick had spent the majority of their impromptu trip listening as his lover had gone on about local forests, the animals and plants that you were likely to run into, the Boy Scout institution as a whole, and how learning to survive in the wild is something everyone should know how to do. _“The whole idea ain’t half bad, but they pussyfoot around the nasty shit – like guttin’ a kill.”_

Rick had cringed. _“Maybe when they’re a little older, huh?”_

Daryl had looked at him then, eyes hooded with something like reprimand. Like he’d forgotten that not all kids were forced to grow up the way he had. Rick hadn’t said anything in response, just reached over and gently squeezed his lover’s thigh. The trip had gone well after that. 

The place Carl is going with the group is only an hour or so away from Daryl’s house, and the two of them had walked to about where the informational packet had said they’d be camping. There was a stream there, and a wide expanse of land to set up a camp. 

_“And, even if you’re thinkin’ worst case, Charger,”_ Daryl had continued to assure him, _“There’s a bunch of farmhouses ‘bout a mile in that direction,”_ he’d pointed towards a clearing of trees, _“a highway two miles off over there,”_ another arm wave in a different direction, _“plus, if he just follows the river he’ll get back to the information center in one direction and a bunch’a hotels in the other. It’s a full-proof location, Rick, I gotta give’em that much.”_

By the end of the day, all the knowledge that Daryl had shared with him had made Rick considerably more relaxed about the entire event – given him the ability to look forward to the fact that his son is willingly (if not somewhat reluctantly) participating in a social activity with people other than Sophia and Glenn. 

The fact that he and Daryl had exchanged blowjobs in the forest, backs pressed against a tree and the ground respectively, clawing at the earth and shouting their pleasure skyward in broad daylight, hadn’t hurt either. 

Rick has to admit that he’s really starting to enjoy nature. 

***

“Is Daryl coming with us?” Carl asks the next morning, eyes still half-closed and bleary as he shuffles around the kitchen. 

Rick – who’s currently busy stacking his son’s camping equipment by the front door – pauses abruptly at the question. “Did you want him to?”

Carl shrugs as he reaches into the cabinet to pull out a protein bar. “Thought he might.” He mutters. “’Cause he knows about camping and stuff.”

Rick wastes no time then in pulling out his phone and discretely sending off a series of texts to his lover. He knows it’s asking a lot, because Saturdays are always Daryl’s longest and busiest days at the shop, but things have been so good between them lately. Ever since Rick had gone to Michonne’s gym and seen the younger man fighting, things have felt different between them. Calmer, somehow. 

For that reason, and because Daryl is a sucker for giving kids what they ask for, Rick’s not at all surprised when he hears the telltale roar of a motorcycle from the parking lot about forty minutes later. 

Carl’s grin is wide and genuine, if not still a little tired. “Awesome.” 

They meet Daryl downstairs. The hunter immediately grabs at the bag Rick is holding, and for a moment the detective wants to protest, because he’s a grown man and can goddamn well carry an eleven-year-old’s camping equipment without help. It only takes a second for him to realize, however, that Daryl hadn’t snatched the gear away from him out of some attempt at chivalry, but rather because he’d wanted to riffle through its contents with a critical eye. 

“Morning, honey,” Rick says with a lilt of irony in his voice as Daryl grunts a response, not at all focused on him. 

Carl must hear his words, as they’re all gathered around the car in the otherwise empty parking lot, but he doesn’t comment on it. He might roll his eyes, or narrow them, or pause dramatically, but he’s facing away from them so Rick doesn’t see. A moment later he’s back at their sides and doesn’t look anything save sleepy and excited, so the detective counts it as a win. 

“You got a canteen with a filtering system?” Daryl asks his son, eyeing him critically. “’Cause you can’t just drink water from a stream, y’know.” 

“I know.” Carl nods. “Animals shit in that water.” 

“Carl.” Rick says warningly. 

“What?” His son asks. “That’s what Daryl says.” 

“It is.” His lover agrees with a nod. “You got a better word for it?” 

Rick opens his mouth to respond, but Daryl gets there quicker. “And the kid ain’t sayin’ _defecates_. ‘Less you want all the other kids out there to make fun of him.”

Rick abruptly shuts his mouth. 

“Yeah, see?” Carl perks up, “There ain’t nothing wrong with saying _shit_.”

Daryl reaches over and flicks Carl’s elbow. 

“Ow, what?” His son exclaims, more surprised by the action than hurt. 

“There _isn’t anything_ wrong with saying shit.” Daryl corrects with a hard stare. 

“So I can cuss but I have to do it with good grammar?” His son asks, sounding incredulous. 

“Yup.” Daryl nods easily, and then changes the conversation abruptly, done with any debate on that matter. “You allowed to bring any weapons out there? No guns, obviously, but a knife?” 

Carl looks putout, and maybe like he wants to argue, but after a few seconds he just shakes his head, folding to the finality in Daryl’s demeanor. Rick can’t help but be impressed; it had taken him many years to master that particular aspect of parenting. 

“They frown on it,” Rick answers his lover’s question about the weapons. “The adults will have some, but they don’t really like the kids…” he trails off as Daryl starts digging through one of the saddlebags on his bike. 

“Here,” he tosses the object to Rick once he finds it. “It’s a Swiss Army knife. Think he should have it on him.” 

Rick eyes it curiously, and tries to ignore Carl’s unrestrained excitement. “It’s small,” he acknowledges as he pops the blade out. 

“Got a bottle opener, can opener,” Daryl lists with a shrug. “And a couple other things. He probably won’t need it, but, y’know.” 

Rick looks from his lover to his son, weighing his options. Finally, he sighs at the latter and fixes him with a stern expression. “This is not a toy,” he says seriously. “You don’t pull this out at people, do you understand me?” Carl nods rapidly. “This is a weapon.”

“And a tool.” Daryl adds. 

“And you use it like that, and only like that, or there will be consequences.” Rick has the fleeting thought that Lori would have never allowed such a thing, but he pushes that away because her ghost can’t win all the time. 

“I get it, dad.” Carl insists. “It’s like the BB gun. I won’t mess around with it, I _promise_.” 

Rick takes a deep breath and then releases it in acceptance. He hands Carl the knife. “I want you to be safe, kiddo. Always.” 

His son is nodding, but the majority of his attention is focused on the new gadget. Daryl, when Rick glances at him, is smiling serenely. “What?” He asks, with fond exasperation. 

“Nice seein’ you so mellow, Charger.” His lover shrugs. 

Rick hasn’t had a word like _mellow_ attributed to any aspect of his behavior in a damn long time. Daryl’s casual observation causes something inside of him to shift, and he feels it as the very last vestige of his resistance rattles free. 

_I’m ready._

***

Rick wants to spend the rest of the day with Daryl, but after they get done dropping Carl off – none of the parents had even blinked an eye at seeing the two of them show up together, the implication of their relationship undeniable and apparently unremarkable – Daryl asks for a ride back to the shop. 

“Be quicker than goin’ back to your place and gettin’ the bike,” he says. “And Dale’s already pissed I took off.” 

Rick cringes. “Sorry. You didn’t have to come, Carl just wanted –”

“Shut it,” Daryl interrupts lazily, surfing his hand up and down out the window, slouched back in the passenger’s seat, not a care in the world. “Old man can still turn a wrench with the best’a ‘em, and Beth’s down helpin’ out.” 

“Thought she was back at school.” Rick asks, because he’d been pretty sure that was the setup – Beth Greene only worked at A&A’s during the summer and holidays. 

“Came out for the weekend. Got a long one for somethin’,” Daryl shrugs. “Midterms, maybe. I dunno. But she’s there.” 

Rick nods. “Well, thank you, all the same.” He shakes his head. “I wasn’t expecting him to ask for you. We haven’t talked about it, the situation, since he first found out.” 

Daryl grunts, which is sometimes all Rick gets from his lover, but he understands it. Daryl’s not one for making bets until all the cards are on the table. 

“I think he’s doing better with it,” Rick goes on. “He’s been googling stuff about having gay parents.” And step-parents, and blending families, but those things have too many implications to mention in a moment like this. “I think it’s a good sign, that he’s seeking out the information on his own. Lori…” his breath catches a little at the casual mention of his late wife, but he powers through it. “Lori always used to tell him that knowledge is power.” 

“Sounds like a smart lady.” Daryl says carefully, eyes conspicuously darting in his direction. 

“She was,” Rick agrees, trying for casual and getting pretty close. “She…we had our issues, but she was a good mother.” 

Daryl nods. After a moment, he reaches over and takes Rick’s hand in his, twining their fingers together silently. 

They ride like that for a while longer, content together. Then, after a few miles of peaceful silence, Daryl interrupts with, “You spy on your kid’s computer?” 

Rick barks a laugh at the unexpectedness of it. “Yeah, a little.” He admits. “Sometimes. Never the really private stuff.” 

Daryl huffs and shakes his head. “Alright, man.” He says, sounding amused and not at all judgmental. “Whatever works, I guess.” 

Rick pulls around to the back of A&A’s when he gets there, allowing Daryl to go straight into the shop and bypass the front area and the customers. His lover looks grateful for it. “Thanks,” he mutters, and lets Rick to steal a quick kiss before he gets out of the car. 

The detective can’t help his grin because Daryl’s not always comfortable with public displays of affection – often looks scared in their aftermath, even if he initiates them – but he tries for Rick’s sake, because he knows it’s important. 

Their relationship is important. The two of them together means everything to Rick, and he’s not willing to let anything get in the way of that. 

Not anymore.

***

On his way back to his apartment Rick can’t help but mull over the revelation he’d had earlier. Carl is going to be gone for the weekend, he doesn’t have to be at the station until tomorrow morning, and Daryl will be at work for the rest of the day. 

He’s been thinking about this, about facing this part of his past, for a long time now. Since he’d moved to Atlanta. Before that, even. Since the day Lori had died. 

He still remembers it so vividly. 

It had been the one-year anniversary of Shane’s death. Rick hadn’t been thinking clearly at all; replaying the events of the day his best friend had died over and over in his head. Carl hadn’t wanted to go to school but Lori had insisted on it. 

_“We’ll go to the cemetery this afternoon when you get home,”_ she’d told their son. _“He’d want you to be happy, Carl. To have a normal life.”_

The ten-year-old had protested, but eventually Lori’s quiet determination had won. 

_“You should go to work, too,”_ she’d told him later that morning, after Carl was gone. 

_“I was planning on it.”_ Rick had snapped at her. He’d been angry at the time. Resentful of Lori’s calm demeanor. She’d had almost as much reason to be upset that day as Rick, and yet she was handling it fine. For the first time in months, in fact, her own grief hadn’t seemed as prevalent as his own. 

So Rick had left without even saying goodbye. 

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever forgive himself for that. 

He’d come home hours early that day – pulled off duty by the sheriff after a whole morning of staring blankly at the desk where Shane used to sit. 

_“You need to take some time, Grimes,”_ the older man had finally cornered him around lunchtime. _“A few days. Get your head back in the game.”_

Rick had been too tired by then to argue. 

He’d come home to an empty house and had felt immediately like something was wrong. As soon as he’d opened the front door his instincts had been tingling. But it was a muffled sensation – he hadn’t trusted himself much at all that year – and was easy to shake off. 

Carl had still been at school and Lori…well, he hadn’t known where Lori was, but it hadn’t bothered him that she wasn’t there. He’d wanted to be alone, anyway. 

He’d already changed out of his uniform and taken a shower before he’d wandered into the kitchen and seen the envelope sitting on the counter. 

His name written across it’s center in Lori’s unmistakable loopy handwriting. 

He’d stopped dead in his tracks and just stared at it. It had seemed so out of place, because he couldn’t remember the last time he and Lori had written each other anything in the way of love letters. Deep down he’d already known that whatever was inside that envelope was something much more foreboding. 

His thoughts had gone still. The sun had been shinning just outside the window and in the distance Rick had heard birds chirping, and the steady hum of his neighbor’s lawnmower. He’d been struck with the ridiculous urge to turn the volume down on both, because everything had felt so fake in that moment that it had seemed entirely plausible that he could take a remote control to the sounds of normality. 

He doesn’t remember how long he’d stood there, frozen in his kitchen on a sunny afternoon one year to the day after Shane’s death, staring at an envelope Lori had left for him until his eyes had gone out of focus and he hadn’t been able to see anything at all. 

All he knows for sure is that when the doorbell had rung he’d jumped. Startled so violently out of the moment that it had felt like dying. 

He doesn’t remember everything that had happened next, not linearly. The memories exist in bursts, with blanks spaces in between, even now. He knows that when he’d opened his front door the sheriff – his boss for over a decade by then – had been standing there, yet he can’t recall walking out of the kitchen. 

He remembers hearing the words _car accident_ and _not sure what happened_ and _she didn’t make it._

He doesn’t know how he’d wound up on his knees in the front lawn. He doesn’t remember screaming, _“No, no, no, no,”_ at the top of his lungs but he does remember hearing it. 

He’d felt disconnected from himself by then. Watching another man’s grief and feeling sorrow in the abstract. It hadn’t been real. It couldn’t be. 

He doesn’t know how much time had passed between that and going to the hospital – the morgue – but he does vividly recall dashing past the sheriff and back into his house to grab Lori’s letter. He can still feel the bulge of it, ever so slight, in the back pocket of his jeans as he’d crouched down, hours later, in front of Carl. He doesn’t know what he’d said to his son, and is glad even now that the sheriff had been there for that, too; because he’ll never forget the look on his son’s face or the way he’d run away from him in the aftermath. 

Rick’s boss – mentor, friend – had been the one to chase him down. Because Rick had been too far gone by then to even try. 

He’d come back to himself a little at a time in the following days. Shane’s parents had helped him plan the service. His friends from the department had come by with food and books and brochures about support groups. Carl hadn’t spoken for two days. When he finally had Rick had known that he’d have to find a way to survive this. For his son. 

So he’d put Lori’s letter, still sealed, into a shoebox and stuck it in the very back of his closet. He’d ignored its existence and even managed to forget, from time to time, that it was there at all. 

No one had wanted him to read the accident report. They’d tried to keep it from him for days – weeks, maybe. Time had gotten muddled after the funeral. But eventually Rick had found it. He’d gone looking for it. 

Because from the moment he’d gotten home that day, one year, almost to the hour, after Shane’s death, and found his house void of life, he’d known that something was wrong. 

Too wrong to ever be right again. 

The ultimate bottom line of the police report had been: _inconclusive_. 

No one could say for sure what had caused his wife’s accident that day. The roads hadn’t been wet. No other vehicle had been involved in the crash. An animal could have dashed out into the street and caused her to swerve, that was possible, but the road she’d been on was a wide one, and any law enforcement officer would have had their doubts about that. 

Rick knew he did. 

There had been no witnesses, no traffic cam footage, and no proof of anything at all. Inconclusive indeed, but the implications weren’t a stretch. 

No one had taken that leap – for Rick and Carl’s sake both, no one had gone there. At least not on paper. But they’d all probably thought it. 

Rick knows he has the answer. He’s been hiding from it for eleven months now, but he has it. It’s in a crumbled up envelope, resting in a shoebox, on the top shelf of his closet. Out of sight but rarely out of mind.

He’d known as soon as he’d seen it that day that Lori hadn’t written him a love letter. Then the world had stopped and he’s been too scared, too haunted, ever since to risk finding out what kind of note his wife had left for him to find. 

But Daryl had said it. Daryl had said it so early on in their friendship that Rick almost feels like a fool for taking so long face the truth for himself. 

_“Know a thing or two about ghosts, Rick. And they'll...they'll steal you outta this world if you're not careful.”_

He knows he couldn’t have done it before he was ready, but he’s ready now. Because he wants to be a part of this world. He wants his son to be happy. He wants to love Daryl without being afraid. He wants his life back – the whole thing, not just the parts the ghosts allow him to have. 

So today he’s going to take it. 

Carl will be gone for the weekend, Rick doesn’t have to be at the station until tomorrow morning, and Daryl’s at work for the rest of the day. 

Rick is alone and content and _ready_. 

He truly believes that.


	24. Not a Goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a hella difficult time writing this chapter. A little because of the content of the chapter itself, though I’ve had a version of this planned from the very beginning, but mostly because every time I sat down to write it I’d just start thinking about the finale. Then I’d get up and pace, or rant, or go online and see what other people were ranting about, and this is such a stressful fucking fandom, jesus mother dick. *deep breath*
> 
> Anyway, hope y’all are dealing with it better than I am. If not, here’s something to take your mind off of it for a while, at least.

***   
***

Daryl’s two hours into replacing brake lines on an F-250, with less than an hour before the shop closes for the day, when a squad car peels into the back lot of A&A’s.

Daryl’s first reaction, when he sees the lights and hears the sirens, is to look for Merle. It’s an out of date instinct that doesn’t make a lick of sense anymore, but he can’t help it. 

The feeling that’s leftover as his initial panic simmers is irritation, bright and absolute, because there’s only one asshole on the planet who would do something like that. 

Only, Abraham Ford never actually _has_ done that before. He’ll pull up in his squad car from time to time, swagger in the backdoor like he has a god given right to be in the shop, but he’s never done it with the sirens blaring. 

Daryl tries to quell the second wave of swelling panic as that realization dawns, but he doesn’t quite manage it. 

His hands are shaking a little as he wipes grease off of them and waits. Aaron turns the radio down, his own face pinched with concern and confusion when Daryl glances over at him. Even Beth emerges from the front of the shop with a deep crease between her brows. 

Ford’s shirt is rumbled and blood-stained. That’s the first thing he sees as the other man approaches him. His tie is gone and his hair is a mess. He looks wrecked and frazzled and scared. 

Daryl had spent over half of his life hating Abraham Ford. He’d had good reason to. And while the man had redeemed himself somewhat when Daryl was sixteen, and then again when he was twenty-three, it’s only been in the past few years that he’s gotten to a place of being able to tolerate him. 

“What?” He asks, his voice coming out cracked and angry as the man approaches, his expression more serious than Daryl’s seen it in years. “What the fuck is going on?” 

Ford stops less than a foot away from him. “Something happened. With Rick. You need to come with me.” 

Daryl hates this man. Or he had. He doesn’t know anymore what category their relationship slots into, or if there’s even a word for it. 

He’d met Abraham Ford when he was fourteen, and in a moment of weakness he’d trusted the man. That had been a mistake. 

Two years after that, in the wake of one of the worst nights of his life and on the cusp of something even worse than that, the older man had pled for redemption. _“I’m sorry,”_ he’d said, blinking away tears that Daryl hadn’t trusted. _“I’m so, so sorry.”_

But Daryl had been too damaged by then to believe it. _“You want to make it up to me?”_ He’d said, voice devoid of anything at all. _“Then you find my brother and tell him where I’m going.”_

Ford had looked honestly perplexed. _“You think Merle’s gonna be able to do something about this? I’m a fucking cop and I can’t –”_

_“Yeah, you can’t,”_ Daryl had spat. _“Merle ain’t like you. He can save me from this. You…you’re the reason this is fucking happening.”_

_“Daryl…”_ It had been the first time Ford had called him anything other than _Dixon_. The younger boy had flinched. 

_“Never mind,”_ he’d growled, catching his split lip between his teeth and gnawing on it until he’d tasted cooper. _“Fuck you. Fuck everything. There’s nothing left. I’m done.”_

He’d honestly thought he had been, too. He’d left Georgia that day, through no choice of his own, and had believed wholly that he wouldn’t live long enough to ever come back. 

But nine months later Merle had saved him. Merle had come to save him because Abraham Ford had found him and told him to. Because he’d believed Daryl, the second time around. 

Seven years after that the red-headed asshole had shown up again, fresh on the heels of an honorable discharge from the army, and done everything in his power to save Daryl a second time. Well, to save Merle, actually. But they’d both known it was the same thing. 

And then five years after that, when Daryl had finally settled himself down in Atlanta, Abraham Ford had inserted himself into Daryl’s life all over again. He insists on being around even when Daryl doesn’t want him. He comes by the shop and they trade harsh words that aren’t nearly as gruesome as they could be. Daryl works on his truck and is friends with his fiancé – how that bastard had scored a woman like Rosita the mechanic will never fully understand, but he can’t help it that he likes her. 

Now there’s Rick, too. Rick spends every single working day with this man and its softened Daryl a little around the edges, because an anger like the one he used to hold for Ford… it just isn’t worth the energy it takes to maintain. Especially not now that Ford is directly responsible for the physical wellbeing of the man Daryl loves. 

“Daryl,” Ford’s voice cuts through his thoughts with the precision of Michonne’s katana. He feels like he’s sixteen again, standing on the ledge of the worst experience of his life. “Are you listening to me?”

“Is he dead?” There’s nothing in his voice. Because anything at all would be too much. 

He hears Aaron gasp, but only reacts when he feels the cop’s hands on his shoulders. 

“Listen to me.” The older man says, right in his face like a bully. 

Daryl jerks out of his hold like he’s on fire, anger immediately filling the void of his emotions. “Fuck you.”

“He’s not dead.” Ford ignores his rage, and Daryl’s heart starts beating again when he hears those words; too fast, but at least it’s there. “He’s not hurt. Not physically. He’s…I’m not sure what he is, but he needs you.” 

The clarity and focus that find him next are reminiscent of the first moments before a fight, or the final ones before he makes a kill shot. Nothing in the world matters except the one thing that does. 

“Let’s go.” 

***  
***

Rick gets back to his apartment after he and Daryl drop Carl off at the campsite. He doesn’t know that in less than seven hours Daryl will be asking Abraham Ford if he’s dead. 

Rick’s decided that today is the day he’s going to read Lori’s letter. He’s come to terms with what he’s probably going to find on the crinkled page he’s left sealed in its envelope since the day his wife had died. He knows that after he reads it he’ll need something. He’s not sure what, yet, but he’s got enough experience with grief by now that he knows better than to be alone for too long. 

So he waits for a while. Times it just right so that Daryl will be here not long after he’s done processing. They’d already discussed Aaron giving Daryl a ride back to Rick’s apartment after work, since his bike is still here, so he knows almost exactly when his lover will arrive.

He’ll tell the other man the whole story then; from beginning to end, what had happened the day Lori had died. He’ll share his deepest fears. They won’t be fears by then. He’ll have proof. 

So he waits a few hours. He cleans the apartment. He pays a few bills. He putters around trying to distract himself until finally it’s too much to take and, for the first time since he’d woken up this morning, he crosses the threshold into his bedroom. 

He feels like he’s walking into battle. 

The shoebox is exactly where he’d left it – tucked up into a top corner, hiding the truth from him because he hadn’t been ready before today to face it. 

He pulls it out and shuffles through its contents, knowing that the letter is at the very bottom, where he always takes care to place it. 

He pulls out a handful of pictures first – happy ones from the early years of his and Lori’s marriage. A few from the hospital the day Carl had been born. Scattered candids of him and Shane through the years – a few of which feature them as bright-eyed second-graders. He doesn’t have many pictures of him and Shane and Lori all together – one or two from when they were in high school and the ones from their wedding are about it. 

He’d only realized that after their deaths, that the three of them very rarely existed together out of more than necessity. 

Once the pictures are out of the way, Rick sees the silver chain that holds his and Lori’s wedding bands, and her engagement ring, together. 

He hadn’t taken his wedding ring off for a month after he and Carl had moved to Atlanta – less than a week before he’d met Daryl, as fate would have it. He’d done it one morning because he’d woken up and had felt like it was time. 

The same way it had struck him today that he was ready to read Lori’s letter. 

Sometimes it takes him a while to deal with things, but once the time comes he doesn’t pussyfoot around. 

He knows that once this is over he’ll have to start seeing a shrink. 

It’s not normal, the way he still sees them. Even for the amount of grief he’s suffered, hallucinations aren’t ordinary. And he’s ready for that. He’s ready to tell Daryl. He’s ready to tell Carl – to offer his son the chance to do the same. Maybe even to insist on it. 

That will be later, though. He’s getting ahead of himself. 

There are a few other trinkets in the box; pictures Carl had drawn as a young child, a menu from the Chinese restaurant he and Lori used to frequent, Shane’s “22” necklace – the only thing he’d asked the Walsh’s if he could keep after their son’s death. He plans on giving it to Carl someday. 

Slowly, but with a steady resolve, he removes every single item until there’s nothing left but the letter he’d found on his kitchen counter the day his wife had died. 

His hand is shaking as he rips open the sealed lip; it doesn’t stop as he unfolds the paper. 

He couldn’t possibly know that in less than three hours Abraham Ford will be standing in front Daryl pleading for the younger man to go with him because Rick is in trouble. 

It never would have crossed his mind that reading his wife’s letter, after all this time, would set off a series of events that would lead to that moment. 

Though he supposes, in the end, it’s more dumb luck than anything. Bad dumb luck. Because while Rick hadn’t known what was waiting for him in that envelope (he’d thought he’d known, but he’d been so wrong) he also couldn’t have predicted that mere minutes after he reads the last words his cell phone would go off, a text from Abraham Ford waiting in his pocket, completely unaware of the chaos it was about to create. 

Unburdened by this foreknowledge, it’s with a clear and resolved state of mind that Rick begins reading. 

When he’s done, the last wisp of Lori’s voice floating through from beyond the grave, the world is contorted; time has gone hazy and sound is muffled, absently sharp in places, and Rick can’t feel anything, not even around the edges, except the intermittent lash of blinding pain. 

He blinks and sees nothing. He blinks again and cringes at the brightness. 

That’s when his cell phone beeps. He takes it out and reads it without thinking – muscle memory. 

_Blake’s at the quarry. Need backup now._

***  
***

Abraham talks a lot in the car. Daryl has never liked the man’s ability to ramble without pause, but today he finds himself absently appreciating it. 

“He showed up all out of sorts,” the older detective says, trying to wipe blood off his face but managing only to get it more thoroughly imbedded in his skin. “I wanted to pull him out right away, but there wasn’t time. Blake was right there. The local cops had already cornered him. He had a gun. We were way back, at first. Didn’t wanna charge him. Could see he was unstable.” 

“What kind?” Daryl grunts, watching out the window as the world flies by nearly as fast as it does when he’s on his bike. Ford still has the sirens on. 

“What kind of what, Daryl?” He asks. The younger man cringes again, at the use of his first name in this context. 

“Gun.”

“A colt, LE901.” Ford tells him. 

“Hunter or military?” 

“Nothing in our investigation ever pointed to Blake being military.” He says. “Or a hunter, for that matter, but a man like him might find that an easy enough personal tidbit to keep to himself.” 

“So he turned up at the quarry where that girl’s body was found, just like Rick told y’all he would eventually?” His voice is a mix of pride and anger; he can hear that much. 

“That he did, son.” Ford sighs, and Daryl grinds his teeth at the term of affection. 

“Don’t fucking call me that.” 

“Is now really the best time to be spittin’ injustices at the nature of our acquaintance?” 

“You let Rick…you let your fucking _partner_ wander in front of a psychotic douchebag with an assault rifle and you’re sittin’ there arguing with _me_?” Daryl can’t really help it if his voice is getting louder. “What the _fuck_ even happened out there, asshole?”

***  
***

Rick doesn’t remember getting to the quarry. 

He knows he must have passed other officers once he’d arrived; told them something to explain away his civilian clothing, made them let him through. But it’s all gray. Loud and gray and not real. 

Abraham Ford’s hand on his shoulder is the first thing he knows he feels. Because for a split second he thinks it’s Shane. 

_“I saw you get tagged, man. That scared the hell outta me.”_

“Me, too.” 

“Rick!” Abraham hisses the word. They’re crouched down together near a line of trees, police cars acting as a shield between them and Patton’s men. 

_No_. Between them and Philip Blake. 

Patton and his gang had been before. With Shane. 

“What are you talkin’ about, man?” Abraham asks him. He sounds out of breath. He’s holding a gun, pointing it at Blake. 

Rick has a gun, too. He doesn’t remember when he’d picked it up. 

_“There’s nothing easy about taking a man’s life, no matter how little value it may have. But when you get it done you have to forget it. I guess I haven’t quite got that last part down.”_

“We can’t forget it, brother.” Rick says. “There’s no way we can ever forget. It stays with you. No matter what.” 

“Christ on a stick’a shit, Grimes,” Ford breathes. “You gotta get outta here. Something ain’t right.” 

“ _Nothing’s_ right.” Rick tunes back into the world then; the moment sharpening with dramatic clarity. “How long has Blake been here?” 

“Someone called it in about forty minutes ago. They tried to approach but he pulled out the gun. Fired it twice. SWAT’s on their way.”

“Man, Greg, will you shut the hell up?” Ford snaps at the officer nearest them who had answered Rick’s question. 

The younger man flushes, and Rick finds himself remembering Leon. He almost smiles. “Ever seen one’a them shows? Like _World’s Craziest Police Chases_?” 

“What’s wrong with him?” Greg asks Ford. Or maybe someone else. All Rick can see now is Philip Blake and the gun he’s wielding. 

There’s an ambulance nearby because two officers have already been shot. Blake’s targeting their own, and Rick won’t stand idly by and let that happen. 

“Nothing’s wrong with me.” He says, forcing his voice steady with surprising ease. “This ends now.” 

From the clearing up ahead Philip Blake screams; “What’s the matter, Officers? Why y’all just standing around back there? Nobody wanna try and take me down? Because I’m waitin’ for it! I’m waiting for you. Don’t you know how this works yet?” He laughs, high and loud over all the other noise. “You kill or you die. And I’ve already done both.” 

***   
***

“You told me he wasn’t hurt.” Daryl snarls as he and Ford make their way through the hospital’s hallway. “That Blake was the only one who got shot.”

“He was.” Ford insists, not looking at Daryl now; instead he’s scanning every room they pass, presumably trying to find Rick. Daryl hates that he’s trailing behind the man desperately, but his concern for Rick trumps whatever it is he does or doesn’t feel for Abraham Ford. “Rick got banged around a little in the scuffle. Nothing serious,” he presses when Daryl tries to interrupt. “They brought him here because they were afraid he might hurt himself.”

“Rick wouldn’t –”

“Have you been listenin’ to me, Dixon?” Ford cuts him off with a flare of anger – fueled most likely by frustration – that has Daryl flinching despite himself. 

He’s not afraid of Abraham Ford. Could take the mother fucker in a fight easy. Hell, even with all his trust issues and the past they share, Daryl knows that Abraham would never actually hurt him. It’s just instinct. Out of date and useless. He’s known Ford since he was fourteen years old, and most of the people he’d known back then had had a habit of hurting him. 

“I’m sorry,” the older man stops suddenly, right in the middle of the bustling hospital hallway. “This situation is outside of my usual skillset.” 

“You sound like Eugene.” 

Abraham smiles just a little, his mustache twitching in the corner. Then he takes a deep breath. “I don’t know what happened today with your…partner.” He clears his throat a little, obviously not sure if that word was the right one to employ. It’s not like Rick and Daryl have taken an ad out about the nature of their relationship. The people who know about them are aware mainly through circumstance, and it’s never occurred to him to put an official title on what they have, mostly because he doesn’t feel like they need one. It’s men like Ford who are more comfortable with titles. 

“Sounds like what happened was he showed up, off his fucking rocker, at an active crime scene with a goddamn serial killer and not one’a you assholes had the sense to pull him outta there before he charged the bastard and almost died.” Daryl tries to get his anger under control, because right now he knows it’s just fear. And if he lets that control him someone’s going to wind up kicking him out of this hospital before they find Rick. And Rick is the most important thing. 

“I kept him alive.” Ford snaps back. “I put myself in the line of fire to save his batshit crazy ass.”

“You –” Daryl’s not sure what he would have said, had they not been interrupted just then. He probably never will. 

“Excuse me, hi,” A voice sounds from behind them, and they both turn around immediately – Ford’s hand goes to his gun at the same time Daryl widens his stance as if preparing for a fight. 

The woman behind them is wearing a dark blue cardigan and has a hospital ID badge dangling from her neck. She’s holding a chart with one hand and adjusting her glasses with the other. 

“Are you Detective Ford?” She asks, eying the older man’s disheveled appearance with a critical eye. 

“Affirmative.” He nods, taking his hand away from his gun even as his posture stays rigid. 

Daryl forgets how to breathe. 

“I’m the doctor working with Rick Grimes.” She looks at Daryl then; silently evaluating him in a way that puts the hunter on edge. “I think you should come with me.”

***  
***

Abraham tries to hold him back when Rick stands up and starts walking towards Blake. 

“It’s okay,” he soothes his partner, eyes focused only on the man, the serial killer, the cult leader, the psychopath, the _father_ that he’s been trying to bring into custody for the past six months. The hunt for Philip Blake predates his time with the Atlanta PD, but that’s a technicality. Philip Blake is _his_ now. “I know what I’m doing.” 

Vaguely, he’s aware of Ford hissing, “hold your fire,” to the other officers, but he ignores it. 

The clearing where Blake is standing is completely empty after a certain point. Abraham Ford and the rest of his department are behind him. Some of the local uniformed officers are across from them. Sasha and a handful of other FBI agents are to his right, and the empty space to the left is where SWAT will set up as soon as they arrive. 

Rick understands situations like this. The logistics are like a map; easy enough to follow and predict. 

He’s got his gun in his hand as he approaches Blake, but it’s at his side. Ready but not aimed. 

“We can talk about this,” He forces his voice neutral once he’s close enough to Blake that the other man can hear him. “My name’s Rick Grimes. I’m a detective with the Atlanta PD. And I _want_ to talk to you about this.” 

“There’s nothing left to talk about, Rick Grimes.” Now that he’s closer, the detective can see the glint of pure insanity in Philip Blake’s eyes. It makes him falter. 

“And why’s that?” He forces himself to go on; to keep walking and talking and living in this moment even though he sees now just how stupid it is. 

_“Don’t you miss me, brother?”_ Shane’s voice finds him like gospel. _“I can tell you all about it if ya come back.”_

“I don’t wanna hear it,” he hisses. But he’s close enough now that Blake hears him. Cocks his head to the side as his finger twitches over the trigger of his weapon. He’s got his gun pointed high, but not at Rick. 

“I thought ya did, Rick.” Blake’s voice oozes with fake disappointment. “I don’t appreciate a man who contradicts himself so quick.” 

“I wasn’t talking to you.” He says. It’s the truth. And maybe, just maybe, Blake will identify with his fading sanity. 

“That’s just about close enough.” Blake levels his gun dead center between Rick’s eyes when the detective is just a few yards away from him. He stops. 

Objectively he knows that dozens of people are watching him right now. But it feels like static. _World’s Craziest Police Chases_ , Leon had joked that day. That’s what it feels like now. Everyone except him and Philip Blake is just a member of the audience. 

“I knew you’d come back here eventually.” He says, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “This is where you left Lily Chambler’s body after you killed her.” He’d started this. He’s going to have to end it. “Did you know about the baby before that?”

Blake’s eyes narrow. “That’s enough.” 

“No, it’s not.” He sounds sad, almost defeated. “You were a father. You _are_ a father. Is this really what you think your daughter would have wanted?” 

“My daughter is dead.” Blake’s whole body is vibrating; like it’s taking every last bit of his self-control to not lunge at Rick. 

“I know.” He breathes. “I know she is.”

“You’re stupid, Rick Grimes.” Blake barks a laugh that’s anything but amused. “Coming out here like this, talking about Penny. Talking about _my_ daughter when I’ve got a gun pointed at _your_ head. It’s stupid. Unless you wanna die. Do you wanna die, Rick?”

_“Don’t you miss me, brother?”_

_“Shane gave me that gun. And I can’t find it.”_

_“That’s ‘cause I told him I’d teach ‘im how’ta ride my bike someday.”_

_“Everything’s gonna be okay, Rick.”_

_“You didn't force a grown man to spend his whole life doin' somethin' he didn't wanna do. It don't work like that.”_

_“He took a bullet for me.”_

_“I loved your mom so much, Carl.”_

_“It’s not fair that you loved her, and that I loved her, and that she’s just gone now. And you’re gonna move on, and fall in love with Daryl, and I like him, dad. I like having him around, but if he stays, and you love him, then mom really is just gone. And I…I don’t want her to be.”_

_“I can make you one next year if you want, Rick. Mom helped me with that one, but I bet next year I could do it mostly by myself.”_

_“…maybe there are certain people in this world that you’re meant to know. And maybe that makes you do stuff when you first meet them, y’know? Stuff you wouldn’t normally do.”_

_I can’t write it down. Can’t even think about it most days, but I know you. And I think you’ve always known. I don’t want this to end us, Rick, and I don’t want you to hate his memory, either. I might not know why I did what I did, but I think I know why he did._

_“No debate needed. We’re on the same team.”_

The kaleidoscope of memories swirl like a riptide until all Rick can see, all he can think, all he feels, is a pulsating, overwhelming, absolute need to stay alive at any cost. 

_This isn’t over. I’m not over._

“No,” he growls. “I’m not dying.” 

The words are an answer to Blake’s question, but also so much more than that. More than the killer in front of him can see, and in his ignorance he laughs manically. “Staying alive ain’t for the faint of heart, Rick. Do you really think you can handle this world?”

Rick pauses for a heartbeat, his eyes going out of focus as he listens. Shane and Lori are silent. It’s the reprieve from his ghosts that allows him to hear something else. 

He looks at Blake again. The moment is whole. Nothing feels fake anymore. “This world is mine.” His voice is steady because he believes in what he’s saying absolutely. “You’re the one who’s already dead.” 

For one brief moment everything is still; the air around them crackling with intent. 

Then, simultaneously and as if it had been choreographed by the hand of god, three guns fire at the same time. 

Blake’s, with the rapid blast of overkill. 

Rick’s, with the familiar solidity of the Colt Python he’s been carrying for years. 

And Abraham Ford’s, with the sharp pang of merciless defeat. 

***   
***

“He’s not here, is he?” Ford stops to ask the question moments before they enter Rick’s room – two floors up from where they’d been looking originally. The psych ward. 

“She just said he was here,” Daryl blanches, impatient and confused. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Blake.” Abraham growls. “Philip Blake’s not here, is he?” 

Daryl blinks, because that’s not a half bad question. He almost wants the answer to be yes. He’d risk the jail time, he thinks, if it meant Philip Blake was no longer a threat to Rick. 

“He was taken to a different hospital,” the doctor who’s been leading them for the last several minutes says simply. “I don’t have the details, but I understand that he may not make it out of surgery.”

“Better fucking not.” Abraham puffs up his chest like he always does when he’s feeling particularly cocky. “I shot that fucker in the _head_. No way is he walking away from that.” 

Daryl spares the older man a glance then. “You did?” 

“I told you that.” Ford barks, eyebrows raised incredulously. 

_“Blake’s shots went wide, ‘cause Rick’s got there first. Milliseconds, Dixon. That’s all it takes. Your boy got a shoulder hit. I landed one through his fucking eye. Feds were on us before I realized he was still breathin’. Shoulda taken the final shot while I had it.”_

“Right,” Daryl blinks, remembering. “You saved his life.” 

Abraham nods solemnly. “That’s my job.” 

***

The doctor who’s been treating Rick since he’d been brought to the hospital is actually a psychiatrist. Her name is Denise Cloyd. She tells Abraham and Daryl that her specialty is treating Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. 

“When cops come in fresh from a fight like that, it’s my job to talk to them,” she explains in a soothing, professional voice. “Make sure they’re alright to go home. That they won’t hurt themselves.”

“So can he go home?” Daryl bites the question. He knows it’s more than that. He knows something had happened today that he doesn’t understand yet. But sometimes he’s still feral – wanting what he wants and not accepting the rules of social conduct. 

“Not yet.” Denise says carefully. “Rick is…he’s suffering from something. We had to give him a mild sedative when he came in, and even that didn’t –”

“You drugged him?” Daryl takes a step towards her, threatening. 

Abraham holds an arm out in front of him as she moves away from him, scared. “Easy.” The older man says, voice low like he’s trying to soothe. Daryl doesn’t like that it works to calm him down, but it does. 

“We believe part of his agitation is from being separated from the people he knows and trusts,” Denise continues on, her voice firm despite her obvious uneasiness. Absently, Daryl respects her for that. “That’s why I wanted you to come with me. Rick’s in a hyper agitated state, and if he doesn’t calm down soon we _will_ have to sedate him completely. For his own good.” 

“I want to see him.” Daryl squares his shoulders. “I have to.” 

“She just said that’s why we’re here, Dixon,” Ford pats his chest once, deeming him no longer an immediate threat to other people, and moves his hand away completely. “Pay attention.” 

***

Rick is pacing the floor of the hospital room like a caged animal, but he stops suddenly when the three of them enter. His eyes flick unseeingly over each of them, and then he immediately goes back stalking the length of the room. 

He’s wearing the same clothes he had been this morning, Daryl notes; the juxtaposition of then and now hitting him like a mallet to the gut. 

“Hey, Rick.” He’s the first one to step closer to the man, letting Denise the shrink and Abraham Ford filter into the background. His lover stops moving again, his body half-turned towards Daryl’s voice, head tilted like he’s waiting for something. “You with me?”

Daryl’s posture is purposely relaxed and non-threatening, which is why he’s caught so completely off guard when Rick lunges at him. His lover violently pushes him until his back slams against the wall, causing Daryl’s breath to catch in his throat. 

Still, he keeps his body lax. “It’s okay,” he holds up a hand to Denise and Ford, who had both rushed forward at Rick’s attack. “Everything’s okay.”

Denise moves towards some kind of call button by the bed, obviously ready to press it at a single wrong move. To summon other people into this room – big ones, probably, who will restrain Rick with physical force. Strap him down and drug him up, leave him helpless and scared. Daryl won’t let that happen. He _can’t_ let that happen. 

Ford is hovering less than a foot behind his partner, ready in his own way to control this situation. But that won’t work any better. Because if Abraham touches him, Rick will snap. And then Denise will press that button and everything will get worse. 

“I can handle this,” he tells them, begging them to believe him. “We’re okay.” He shifts just a little, causing Rick’s forearm to press marginally tighter against his chest. But it gets Rick to look at him, so it’s worth it. “Ain’t that right, Charger? Yeah, we’re okay.”

Rick closes his eyes tight, whole face scrunching up in what looks like pain. When he opens them again they’re a clearer blue, seeing him like he hadn’t been before. “Daryl?” 

“Yeah, Charger, just me,” he’s never used this voice with Rick before – this utterly soothing, completely non-threatening, melodious tone that floats like wind through flowers. It’s the voice he used to use on Merle when his brother was too high to think straight. The tenor that he’d dipped into once when he was twenty-five and someone had been holding a knife against his throat. 

Merle never hurt him when he was high, even when a part of him had wanted to. And Daryl had walked away from Joe with his life intact. He expects nothing less from Rick today. 

“I couldn’t put it back together.” His lover presses against him again, but it feels more like desire to be close than a want to hurt. Daryl remains perfectly relaxed. “I thought I could. For you and Carl. For us. For all of it. I thought I knew what she did. I thought it was a _choice_.” 

Daryl’s eyes narrow unintentionally at those words. He doesn’t know exactly what the older man is talking about yet, but he understands now that this is somehow about his wife. 

The way Rick is behaving, the flashes of violence and sorrow, it’s just like it had been that night at the bar. 

His lover had screamed _“I can’t help you!”_ at a ghost in a mirror, and somehow the same thing is happening right now. Only bigger. 

“What choice?” Daryl asks carefully, trying desperately to understand. 

Rick uses all the strength he has left to fling Daryl away from him. Abraham twitches and Denise stands perfectly still. He gestures at both of them to stand down for just a little while longer. 

Rick is standing again with his head cocked to the side, like he’s trying desperately to hear something that isn’t there anymore. After a few seconds, he rubs his hands over his face roughly. 

“I thought she did it on purpose.” He whispers, voice hitching. He starts nodding, though it’s not a response to anything. Just an unconscious movement; his body trying to comfort itself with repetition. “The accident. It shouldn’t’ve happened. There wasn’t a reason. I thought she did it on purpose.” 

Suicide, Daryl realizes with a jolt. Rick’s been walking around for almost a year thinking that his wife had committed suicide. 

“But…but she didn’t.” He says lowly, faltering more than he’d have liked over the words. That’s what had started this; Rick had somehow found out that something he’d believed wasn’t true after all. 

“No,” he laughs bitterly. “No, it wasn’t a choice. It was just…nothing. An accident. Fate. The world being cruel.”

Daryl thinks he understands. Rick had believed, honestly believed, that his wife had killed herself. And while that knowledge must have been eating away at him like the worst kind of parasite, he’d _believed_ it. To find out that something like that isn’t what you’d thought it had been, even if the truth is objectively less painful…Daryl understands why Rick is acting like his whole world has fallen apart all over again. 

“I couldn’t put it back together.” He whispers. It’s what he’d said before, but Daryl gets it now. Rick meets his gaze again and the hunter’s heart _throbs_ for how desperate he looks. He’s pleading for something, and it kills Daryl that he can’t give it to him. “And the worst part is…the worst part is, it fell apart so long ago. And I knew. Somewhere…I know I knew. Because I was never sure, if it came down to it, that she wouldn’t choose him over me.” 

Daryl remembers their night at Grayson’s, and everything Rick had told him about Shane. _“I used to think that they'd both choose him over me if given the chance.”_ He’d said then. Daryl had dismissed the sentiment as a byproduct of grief, but his gut clenches now with the fear that it had been more than that. 

“I thought it was a goodbye,” Rick reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. It’s crumpled, having lived through the same events that Rick himself had today. But it’s still there. Still readable and worth something. “That’s why I never opened it before. I wasn’t ready to hear her say goodbye.” 

He holds it in his hands for a few seconds, just looking at the wrinkled, folded paper like he doesn’t know what it is anymore. Then, with a single slow nod, he reaches forward, silently asking Daryl to take it. 

He doesn’t at first, not sure if it’s his place even though Rick is clearly inviting him into this inner circle of his life. Cautiously, he takes a step closer the man. “You don’t gotta, Rick.” He says softly. “It doesn’t change anything.” 

“It changes everything.” His face contorts with anger briefly, but smooths out after only a few seconds. “She wasn’t trying to leave us. She wanted to start over. She wanted me to _forgive_ her.” 

Daryl take a deep, steadying breath. After a while, it becomes glaringly obvious that nothing about this moment is going to change until Daryl takes that letter out of Rick’s hand and reads it. 

The four of them will stay stuck in this room indefinitely, never moving forward or back, if he doesn’t pick up this piece of Rick’s guilt and help him carry it. 

In the end, the decision isn’t hard. Daryl would find a way to control the tides for this man if he asked it of him. Set next to the strength of his devotion, reading a letter feels easy. 

So he moves closer, until he’s right there in front of him, barely a breath of space left between them. He takes the letter out of the older man’s hands and unfolds it slowly. Then he reads the words left behind by the one person who had loved Rick before him. 

_Rick,_

_I never thought of myself as much of a writer, but Dr. Morris suggested it as a way to talk to you, so all the other stuff wouldn’t get in the way. Obviously I never did it before, when we were actually seeing him, but that’s only because I was scared. Scared that if I did it, wrote it all down and let you see, that we would be over. But we’re pretty close to over already, and I don’t want to lose you._

_I love you, Rick. That’s the most important thing. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anybody – except our son. Sometimes I wonder, though, how much of that love is learned. What I mean is, we were so young when we met. Barely people of our own. The first time I ever saw you I knew you were the one. I know you don’t believe in love at first sight, and maybe you’re right. You probably are. You usually are. But even if it wasn’t love it was something._

_I still remember it, you know? That first day. You were playing basketball with Shane. I’d been so angry at my parents for moving us to a new town, but when I saw you I forgave them. I believed that there was a reason. You were my reason, Rick. That’s why I waited for you. It would have been so easy for me to move on, to find someone else while you were away at college, but I never did. Not really. I know we don’t talk about that time a lot, those years when you were gone. I know I said I didn’t want to know about anyone you might have found after we broke up. I only cared that you came back to me. That’s still true._

_If we’re going to make this work, if we’re going to make us work, then we can’t focus on the past._

_I just spent five minutes staring at that last sentence._

_This would be so much easier if I could just forget._

_But I can’t. I can’t forget and I can’t forgive. Not myself._

_I know I complain about you not talking to me, not communicating. I’ve said it so much in the past few years that I don’t even know if I remember what it means anymore._

_The truth is I’m a hypocrite._

_I’ve lied to you. I’ve done things that I don’t know if you can forgive. You asked me once if I was having an affair. And when I said no, that wasn’t a lie. But it also wasn’t the truth, because I have. Not when you asked, but before. It went on for over a year._

_I don’t even know why I did it. I missed you. That’s a bad reason, and I know it, but it’s the truth. We were fighting all the time and I just wanted a part of you back. That’s why it had to be him, I think. Because it could have been him._

_I can’t write it down. Can’t even think about it most days, but I know you. And I think you’ve always known. I don’t want this to end us, Rick, and I don’t want you to hate his memory, either._

_I might not know why I did what I did, but I think I know why he did. And even if you never trust another thing I say ever again, please know that this, at least, is the truth. His reasons weren’t vindictive or cruel. He didn’t want to hurt you. Someday, if you want, I can tell you what I think the truth is, but I won’t say it here because I want you to have the choice. Because maybe it’s better if you don’t know. I’m not going to decide that for you._

_The only thing I can decide is where I want us to go from here. And, Rick, I want us to be together again. I want you to get help, to deal with losing your best friend. And I want us to get help, so we can be a family again. I miss you even when you’re right next to me, and even if you can never forgive what I’ve told you, you’re still the father of my son. I still love you._

_I love you. No matter how it got there, my love for you will always be a part of me. And I want you, I need you, to be okay again._

_I’m writing this today because it’s been one year, one year exactly, since we lost Shane. And I don’t want to go another year without you knowing the truth. The whole truth._

_I hope to God that this letter doesn’t destroy you. I can’t lose you, too._

_I need you, Rick._

_Carl needs you._

_It’s time for us to be okay again. Please._

_We only have the future now._

_Love Forever,  
Your Wife_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Batshit!crazy Rick is harder to write than I thought he’d be, honestly. I was trying to portray his mental break as intense, but not quite as absolutely insane as he was in the show after Lori died or after Carl got shot, because Lori’s already been dead for a while here. At the same time, he was kind of experiencing her death all over again, because he was forced to deal with the fact that it really was just cruel fucking happenstance that killed her. 
> 
> There will be more dealing in the next chapter, also. And probably a decent amount of hurt/comfort. 
> 
> Comments are love.


	25. Stand Beside the Ocean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, it’s been forever. I’ve had much work and little sleeps. But here it is! Finally.

_I hope you never lose your sense of wonder_   
_Get your fill to eat but always keep that hunger_   
_May you never take one single breath for granted_   
_God forbid love ever leave you empty handed_   
_I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean_   
_Whenever one door closes I hope one more opens ___

____

***  
***

_“So, which was your favorite?” Rick asks later. He and Daryl have pushed the food aside, and are now leaning against the ledge of their makeshift picnic spot, passing the still-mostly-full bottle of Jack Daniels between them._

_“Favorite what, Charger?” Daryl asks, and he sounds patiently amused. That’s when Rick realizes he’s a little tipsy from the drink. He’s not drunk, just warm and hazy around the edges; but still, the next time the bottle’s in his hands he rests it on the ground next to him rather than taking a sip._

_“Place that you’ve lived.” Rick clarifies. He and Daryl are close enough that their sides are pressed together, with Rick’s right knee resting nearly on top of Daryl’s thigh; the younger man is sitting with his legs out in front of him while Rick’s got his pulled up and crossed in a loose Indian-style. “You’ve lived all over, right? Did you have a favorite?”_

_Daryl looks thoughtful for a minute, fingers toying with the seam of Rick’s jeans. “Spent some time in California,” he says. “The valley, not L.A.”_

_“Of course not.” Rick agrees, but it’s mostly for show. At this point, he really can picture Daryl just about anywhere. Although, thinking about it a beat longer, Los Angeles is kind of a stretch._

_“That whole side’a the country was nice, actually.” The younger man goes on, sounding sort of like he’s considering it for the first time as he’s talking. Rick wonders if anyone ever asks Daryl about his past. If Daryl’s willing to talk about it with others or if Rick is special. It makes something deep inside of him feel warm, thinking about it like that. “Calmer, anyway.” He shakes his head. “Less judgmental.”_

_“You regret comin’ back?” He asks. And he’s not sure if he’s expecting some big declaration about Georgia being home and Daryl not wanting to live anywhere else, but for some reason it kind of surprises him when the other man merely shrugs. “That a yes?” He turns slightly to get a better look at the man he loves._

_God. Loves._

_He really can’t get that out of his mind. For as much as he feels it now, he knows he’s not ready to say it yet. And that’s probably a good thing, but still. Just knowing it makes him feel like he’s got livewires running through his veins._

_“I dunno, Charger,” The hunter takes a deep breath and shifts them around a little, so Rick is leaning against Daryl’s shoulder. Rick doesn’t mind the change one bit. “Most places are just like every other fuckin’ place, y’know? I mean, ya get better Chinese food in New York and there’s more huntin’ in Kentucky, California’s got an ocean and Washington had mountains, but at the end’a the day a place is a place, people either hate ya or they don’t.” He pauses. “Cars rust out a helluva lot quicker in Ohio than they do in North Carolina, though.”_

“What are you thinking about, Rick?” 

The doctor’s voice cuts through his memories, and the detective refocuses on the moment he’s in with a snap.

“I’ve never been to the ocean.”

The doctor – psychiatrist, he mentally corrects himself – tilts her head curiously, but without a trace of judgement. “Is that something you’d like to do?” 

“I had this dream the other night,” he says, swallowing thickly because his throat is dry even though he’s gone through two bottles of water in the past hour. “It was weird. I was walkin’ through this city. Didn’t recognize anything, but I knew I was in California. ‘Cause dreams, y’know?” 

She nods. Rick feels like this is important even if it sounds silly, so he keeps going. 

“And I kept walking around, trying to find something. Something important, but not really important. Not a person. More like I was late for a meeting but got lost on the way and there was no one around to ask for directions.” He squints at the wall, trying to remember it. “And I felt like I was going around in circles. For a long time, I kept passing the same places. Then, finally, I saw these stairs. And I was still outside, but it was like a boardwalk or something, and I couldn’t see where they went, and I didn’t know if it was the right direction, but it was different, so I took them. Halfway down I was in the ocean.” 

“Huh.” The psychiatrist – Denise – makes a note in the little book she’s holding. Rick does his best to not think about what it might say. 

“Not all the way in.” Rick clarifies. “It was like the tail end of the tide was just washing up. And I looked around and there were more people then. Going up and down and not…not caring that they were getting wet. Like it was normal. So I just kept going. I remember being able to taste the salt in the water when it crashed over me. But I’ve never been to the ocean.”

“Dreams are our subconscious mind’s way of processing things in our life.” Denise – she’d told him to call her Denise – puts her pen down for a moment and looks at him thoughtfully. “Sometimes they have deeply profound meaning, but sometimes they don’t.” 

Rick snorts a little. “That supposed to be helpful?” He doesn’t say it vindictively, because all the fight had gone out of him a while ago. 

“Maybe.” She pushes her glasses up a little and leans forward. “Do _you_ think it means something?”

Rick takes a breath. “Daryl used to live in California.” He says. Denise leans back again and listens. “He told me that, a while ago. And Lori…Lori always used to talk about wanting to go to Martha’s Vineyard. I don’t even know why. She hated swimming. Wouldn’t even get in the pool when we used to take Carl. But she wanted it. Wanted to be the type of family that took vacations at Martha’s Vineyard.” 

“So why didn’t you?” 

The question is innocent enough, but it makes Rick pause. “Money, I guess.” He shakes his head, thinking back to all the conversations they’d had about it. “And time. There just wasn’t ever enough of either.”

“Do you regret that?” 

“Of course I do.” At another time those words might have come out bitterly, but right now they’re just laced with resignation. 

“Would you go now? If you could, would you go now?” 

Rick doesn’t understand the importance of any of this; how or if it’s helping her figure out his current mental state. But he’s too tired to fight it. “I took Carl to the lake once.” 

Denise’s eyes squint a little, confused, and Rick expands, “I went to college in Ohio. And when he was little – four or five – they were having this alumni thing. I decided to go. Lori didn’t, for some reason. She was sick, maybe. I don’t remember. But it was just me and Carl. I took him to Lake Erie. He loved it.” 

“Why do you think that means so much?” Denise asks. 

If Rick closes his eyes, he can still taste the salt from a dream ocean. 

“I don’t know.” 

***

“Hey, Charger.” Daryl’s voice is soft, but still manages to catch Rick completely off guard. 

He’s sitting at a table by the window, staring out at the hospital grounds below – visible in the night only because the lights in his room are dimmed – but he turns around when he hears his lover. 

“Hey,” he manages a soft smile. It doesn’t surprise him that Daryl is here. It should, but nothing in his brain is working the way it should right now, anyway, so he lets it go with ease. 

Daryl shuts the door behind him silently and walks closer, studying him with the keen eye of a seasoned hunter. “How ya feelin’?”

Rick sniffs a little and rubs his nose. “Better.” He shrugs. “They gave me drugs.”

Daryl pauses, gaze narrowing considerably. “Did you want drugs?” 

He thinks it’s out of place, the intensity of his lover’s voice around that question. But he’s just over the line on the wrong side of loopy to place why. “Yeah,” he answers instead. “Feel calmer now.”

“Good.” Daryl nods, and that hint of danger that had been there before is gone. 

The younger man sits down in the chair across from him; tiny hospital table barely separating them. Rick watches him as he settles. “You’re not supposed to be here.” 

He’s less than twelve hours into his twenty-four-hour psych evaluation. Visiting hours had ended a long time ago, and he’s not sure those even apply to him as it is. 

“No.” Daryl agrees easily. “Snuck in during shift rotation.”

“My criminal mastermind.” He smirks amusedly. 

Daryl looks at him thoughtfully for a moment, and even though Rick is a little spacey, he’s not completely _gone_ on whatever Denise had given him. He can tell that Daryl is debating with himself over whether or not to say something. 

“What?” He presses lightly, hoping it will help. “You can trust me.”

“Yeah, I know.” Daryl takes a deep breath and then lets it out slowly. “My brother was in the hospital once, for a few weeks.” The younger man shrugs, looking down for a moment and then up again, trying to play it off like these words don’t matter. “I wasn’t supposed to visit him, but I did anyway. Like this. It’s easy, once you get the hang of it; sneakin’ around.” 

“Why weren’t you supposed to visit him?” Rick asks, because that feels more important than the fact that Daryl had broken the rules to get what he’d wanted. 

“Lawyers told me not to.” He explains, even though that really doesn’t explain anything. “And he was under arrest. Woulda taken him to jail then if they’d been able to move ‘im. Was supposed to be a guard in his room, but the asshole wasn’t ever there at night. Think he was fuckin’ one of the nurses, actually, but it gave me a chance to come and go.” 

Rick processes that information slowly, digesting each piece of it a little at a time. It’s nice, actually, being able to focus on something other than his own feelings. The drugs he’d taken are doing their job keeping him mellow, but that doesn’t stop him from thinking: about the fact that he’s going to be trapped in this hospital for hours yet, or that he’s going to have to tell Carl something about what had happened when he gets out. About how he misses Lori and Shane’s ghosts. 

No, those thoughts are definitely still there – forts set up on every perimeter of his mind – but focusing on Daryl gives them less power.

“You could have snuck him out.” Rick says a while later. Silence had stretched between them, but Daryl seems content waiting for him. 

“Coulda.” Daryl agrees. “Wasn’t gonna let’im spend the rest of his life on the run, though. He wouldn’t’ve made it far, anyway. Was in bad shape.”

“What happened to him?” 

Daryl bites his bottom lip and glances away. Rick can see their reflections in the window if he concentrates on them. He chooses instead to see the scenery. 

“He killed our dad.” Rick whips his head back, focusing on Daryl again with an intensity he hasn’t felt since he’d first gotten here. The younger man shrugs one shoulder. “Old man went down swingin’.”

“Jesus Christ, Daryl.” 

His lover shakes his head. “Don’t,” he starts, and Rick can’t tell if it’s a demand or a plea. 

“Were you there?” Rick asks, because he has to know. Has to be able to picture it the way it had really happened. 

“Yeah,” he nods once, easily. “Was my fault. Kinda.” He lets out a deep breath. “Had been travelin’ for a while by then, on my own. Driftin’, I guess. Hadn’t seen Merle in a couple years. Then he called me, all drunk and stupid, beggin’ me to bail him out. Was in debt to some dealer or somethin’, needed money. I wasn’t that close, but I went anyway. Got there a few days later. And I was pissed, y’know? But I gave ‘em the money anyway, and he paid off his debts, but he also went out’an bought more shit. Fuckin’ addict. So I got into with him. We fought, and my shirt got ripped. Near clean off. Merle, he hadn’t…he didn’t know about…y’know.” 

The scars. Rick fills in mentally. “He didn’t know your dad abused you?” 

Daryl flinches at the word, but before he can apologize or take it back, the younger man’s talking again. “My old man did some fucked up shit to me, Rick. Only reason I even managed to get away from him at all was ‘cause he sent me away when I was sixteen.”

“Sent you away where?” Rick asks before he can stop himself. 

Daryl ignores the question so completely that Rick doubts after a moment whether he’d voiced it at all. 

“But Merle was gone ‘fore he started usin’ the belt. He coulda guessed; hell, he probably did, ‘cause it ain’t like the bastard didn’t do the exact same thing to him. But he never saw so he got to pretend. ‘Til he did see.”

“I’ve seen murders happen for a helluva lot less.” Rick says carefully. “You couldn’t have stopped him.”

Daryl snorts. 

“I mean it.” The older man presses. “Even if you had stopped him somehow that night, he would’ve tried again. And again and again until one of them, or both of them, or all three of you were dead. It wasn’t your fault.” 

Daryl looks up then, catches Rick’s gaze in the half-dark of the room. 

All at once he realizes what had just happened, and he crosses his arms over his chest defensively. “It’s not the same thing.” 

“It ain’t?” 

Rick deflates a little at the easy innocence in his lover’s tone. He doesn’t even know why he’s trying so hard to hold onto this. “I know I didn’t kill Shane.” 

Daryl smiles sincerely when he says those words. It makes something in Rick’s gut clench painfully. 

“I know that. I do.” He keeps going. “It was just…the job. Protecting each other was our job. I woulda done the same thing for him.” 

Daryl nods even as he grimaces slightly at the thought of Rick dying. 

“And Lori’s death was an accident. I know that now.” He inhales sharply and tears well up in his eyes. He blinks rapidly to try and clear them. “It just _hurts_.”

“I know.” Daryl breathes. He stands up slowly then and reaches for Rick’s hand. “C’mon.” He prompts. “Should get some rest while you’re here.” 

Rick looks at the hospital bed and shakes his head, even as he’s taking Daryl’s hand and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. “I don’t wanna sleep here.”

“Then just lay down.” The hunter coaxes, sounding almost too gentle. Like he’s trying to tame something rabid and wild. Rick vaguely remembers him sounding like that earlier, when Rick had been more than half insane and ready to attack anything or anyone who had crossed his path. 

He cringes now at the abrupt memory of shoving Daryl into a wall. “I’m sorry about before. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just –”

“Shuddup, Charger.” Daryl breathes. “I know, alright?”

They make their way to the hospital bed slowly. Rick sits on the edge of it and exhales a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding when Daryl sits down next to him. He lets himself lean into the younger man. 

“Thank you for telling me all that stuff,” He says softly, words slightly muffled in the fabric of Daryl’s t-shirt. “About your family.” 

“You needed to hear it.” Daryl raises his arm and starts brushing his fingers through Rick’s curls. The angle is sort of awkward, because of the size of the bed and the way they’re sitting, but Rick melts into the touch all the same. 

He takes a breath and, for just a second, can swear he smells rain. 

They stay like that for a while. There’s no clock in the room, and they’d taken his watch away when he’d gotten here, but Rick has his eyes closed, anyway, so it barely matters. He counts time in the strokes of Daryl’s fingers through his hair, and the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. 

“Wanna lay down now?” Daryl asks again, after the fourth or fifth time Rick’s head starts to droop. 

“Yeah,” the detective sighs. “But only for a few minutes.” 

Daryl hums noncommittedly at that, focusing instead on rearranging them so they can both fit on the tiny bed that clearly was not designed to hold more than one full grown adult. They manage it by basically lying on top of one another. Daryl stays more propped up, and starts running those soothing fingers up and down along Rick’s spine.

He feels himself starting to drift. He’s scared of giving in completely, scared of what his dreams might have in store for him, but he knows he’ll have to let go sooner or later. And he’d rather do it now, with Daryl here, than later when he’s alone. 

“Tell me everything’s gonna be okay?” He requests – his voice is barely audible and cracks a little in certain places, but Daryl hears him. Daryl always hears him. 

“Everything’s gonna be okay.” He gently squeezes the nape of Rick’s neck. “I promise.” 

“Good.” Rick breathes. “That’s good.” 

He’s asleep before he can think anything else. 

***  
***

Denise catches him in Rick’s room around seven the next morning. The sun isn’t even up yet, and she’s clearly just arrived – holding a coffee in one hand with a messenger bag slung over her shoulder. She’d probably just popped her head in to see if Rick was sleeping or not. 

He is. But Daryl has been wide awake for most of the night. 

“You’re…not supposed to be here.” Her eyes are wide behind her glasses. 

Daryl licks his lips and thinks very carefully about how he wants to play this. “I sleepwalk.” 

The doctor narrows her gaze. “You sleepwalk?” She repeats. “You sleepwalked out of your house all the way _here_? Into this hospital? Past security?”

Daryl clears his throat. “Yup.”

She spends about thirty seconds staring at him hard. Daryl holds his breath and her gaze, willing his body to stay relaxed and his expression honest. 

Eventually, she nods minutely. 

“Y’know, sleepwalking in adults is pretty uncommon.” She’s trying to keep her voice level, Daryl can tell, but there’s the barest trace of a smirk on her face that she can’t quite hide. “Might wanna get a CAT scan while you’re here.” 

It’s the hunter’s turn to quirk an eyebrow questioningly. Is she really going to let him get away with that? “I will.” He says firmly. Of course he won’t, and they both know it. 

“Good.” She nods once, satisfied. “I’ll be back in about half an hour, to talk to Rick again.”

Then she’s gone, and Daryl’s left staring at the empty doorway with an openly bemused expression that he’s incredibly thankful no one is around to see. 

***  
***

“What are you thinking about, Rick?” 

The detective is sitting at the little window-side table in the hospital room again. Only this time, Doctor Denise is sitting across from him, instead of Daryl. Whatever medication they’d given him the night before has all but worn off now, and Rick’s feeling the absence of it. He refuses more when she offers it to him, though. 

“My son’s been on a camping trip.” He swallows thickly. “We dropped him off yesterday morning. I’m supposed to pick him up today at four.” 

Denise nods. “Your evaluation isn’t over until six.” 

“That’s what I’m thinking about.” Rick leans forward. “How am I supposed to give my kid a normal life when I can’t even pick him up from a _camping trip_?” He laughs bitterly, scrubbing his hands over his face with more force than necessary. “I’m messin’ this up so bad.”

“Messing what up, exactly?” She asks, and maybe it’s just well-placed sympathy, but she looks honestly regretful about the situation she’d inadvertently stuck him in. 

“Everything.” Rick snorts. “His godfather dies, I check out. His mom dies, I move him to a new city. We finally start getting back to normal, I start dating a guy. He starts accepting that, I go crazy. God, if I ran into me while I was on the job I’d report myself to CPS.” 

“You’re not a bad father, Rick.” Denise says this calmly. “You’ve been through a series of intensely traumatic experiences.”

“I wasn’t even wearing a vest.” 

“What?” 

“When I engaged Blake at the quarry.” Rick sighs deeply, hating himself all over again. “I wasn’t wearing a bulletproof vest. I could have died.” 

“That’s true.” Denise nods. “But you were in a dissociative state of shock. You didn’t _choose_ to take those actions, not consciously. It’s not something you would have done in a sound state of mind.” She pauses meaningfully. “Is it?”

“What?” Rick, caught up in his own thoughts, takes a moment to process the implication of her question. When he does he blanches. “No. God no. Of course not.”

“Okay, good,” she smiles at him reassuringly. 

They talk for a while longer after that. Rick answers questions and shares thoughts, he gets angry and anxious, relieved and sad, and after a while he settles into a sense of calm. It’s not absolute – feels precarious as all hell, in fact – but it’s real. 

***  
***

Daryl’s got a long, complicated history with drugs of every sort, and while he understands the inherent benefits of certain types of medication – like antibiotics and such – the idea of pills that make you think different doesn’t set right with him. Everyone has the right to choose what they want to put into their body, he’ll agree to that, but personally it’s not his thing. And when people take that right away – when drugs of any kind are forced on someone in anyway, that’s when he gets pissed. 

Rick seems more like himself today than he had last night; and he’s worlds away from the mess he had been yesterday, but his sudden unmuted return to the chaos in his mind is causing his lover a world of stress, and Daryl finds himself thinking – for the first time in many years – that a handful of drugs might actually help a situation, rather than hinder it. 

“I can’t get it out of my head.” 

Daryl watches patiently as Rick paces the floor in front of him. “What?” He prompts when the older man doesn’t continue on his own. 

“Lori’s letter.” He shakes his head, agitated. 

“Yeah.” The hunter acknowledges. Because he can’t really think of anything to say to that. He’d played his only good hand the night before. 

“She was sleeping with my best friend.” 

Daryl raises his eyebrows a little. So far Rick’s only talked about the content of the letter in regards to Lori’s actual death. 

“Yeah.” He says again. He can’t stand that he’s not really helping. 

“I want to hate…I want to be angry at her.” He changes his words mid-thought. Daryl can’t really blame him. “At both of them. But I feel like I missed my chance, y’know? I knew it was happening back then, on some level. But I just…I didn’t wanna see it. God, I’m no better than your brother.” 

The hunter immediately shakes his head. “That’s not –”

But Rick doesn’t give him the chance to finish. “They died and left me with all these questions. How is that fair?”

“It’s not.” Daryl leans forward in his head and grabs Rick’s hand, stops the other man’s pacing and forces him to stand still in front of him. He waits until their gazes lock to say again, firmly. “It’s not, Rick.”

The older man just stares at him for a few seconds, shoulders tight with tension. And then, all at once and probably with conscious effort, his whole body sags. He squeezes Daryl’s hand. “Yeah.” 

The hunter smiles a little at the reverse in conversation. And then, because he’s still desperately trying to think of something, anything, that will help soothe this man, he says, “At least you know now.” He swallows when Rick’s eyes narrow, suddenly unsure if this is the right course to take but too desperate to back down. “Why Shane apologized to you the day he died.”

Rick laughs, but it’s a tired sound. “No, I don’t.”

Daryl’s tilts his head. “But, the letter said…” 

“Shane was sleeping with Lori.” Rick fills in without emotion, making the younger man wince. “That’s not what he apologized for that day. I know it.” 

“Rick,” Daryl tries, but he honestly doesn’t know where to go from there. 

“No,” the detective insists. “I knew Shane better than anybody. That’s _not_ what he meant that day. Not all of it, at least.” 

Daryl doesn’t say anything. 

“Lori knew.” Rick whispers the words after several long seconds of silence. 

“What?” 

“What she wrote. ‘Bout why she and Shane…” He sniffs once, probably feeling the hurt all over again. “Said there was a reason. Didn’t wanna write it down ‘cause she wanted me to…not know it.” 

“She said it should be your choice.” Daryl recalls the words. He doubts he’ll ever forget any of them. Knows Rick won’t. 

“She always said that when she knew I wouldn’t wanna know.” Rick explains. “Like, this one time Carl got in trouble at school. I didn’t find out about it ‘til I got home that night. She’d grounded him for two weeks. And he was only eight. That was the longest we’d ever punished him. And I asked her why and she just gave me this look, like sympathy and she could handle it all by herself. She said she’d tell me if I asked but that I didn’t necessarily wanna ask. I never did.” 

“Carl could tell you.” Daryl suggests. It sounds dumb even to him. 

“Yeah,” Rick agrees. “But this…” he gestures at nothing with the hand not currently being held onto by Daryl. “Only two people in the world I could ask about this are dead.” 

Daryl takes a deep breath and releases it with a slow nod. 

He doesn’t believe that Shane’s dying words had been about his affair with Rick’s wife, either. But he’d been praying Rick would. That the other man would be able to let it go, his misery over not knowing why the last thing his best friend had done before he’d died was apologize to him. He should have known better – known that Rick was too smart, too _honest_ to believe that lie. 

“I’m sorry,” Daryl offers, pulling him a little closer until Rick is standing between his legs. He moves his hands to hips and starts rubbing gentle circles there, hoping that his touch helps ground his lover. Comfort him. Because he’s not sure what else to do. 

He thinks he knows. Knows what _I hope you and God forgive me_ had meant. 

He can’t be sure. There’s no way to ever be sure about this, and that’s why he’ll never say it. Not to Rick, not to anybody. Because he could be wrong, and he’d hate himself if he were.

In the end it really doesn’t even matter. Rick’s still going to grieve for these people, and Daryl is still going to be here to help him get through that. He’d told Rick once that his ghosts would steal him out of this world if he wasn’t careful, and that still holds true today. There’s nothing to be done about the sins of the dead except move beyond them. Otherwise you wind up just as buried as they are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The truth about Shane’s final words will never be a part of this story. For purely logistical reasons. This is a story told from Daryl and Rick’s points of view and neither Daryl nor Rick know the truth (Daryl will never share his thoughts, whether or not they’re right). That’s the bad news. The good news is that I’ve had a Shane’s POV prequel one-shot story burning a hole in my hard drive for MONTHS and now that this part of the story is finally complete I will be posting it soon. 
> 
> Lyrics from “I Hope You Dance” by Lee Ann Womack


	26. Me, too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel terrible it's been over a month since I've updated this - I don't even have a good excuse, I just kinda got into a rut and time got away from me. Thanks for sticking with me.

***

After a full twenty-four hours of evaluation, Dr. Denise deems Rick fit enough to go home – on the condition that he return once a week for the next six months (at least) for therapy sessions. She can’t force him to do that, of course, but the police department can and already has. If Rick wants the all clear to go back to work at any point, he’ll have to agree to the treatment.

Rick hadn’t fought it. 

“Knew I’d have to, sooner or later,” he’d told Daryl with a lopsided smirk that was more ironic than amused. “I was seein’ ghosts, man. Knew I was a little screwed up in the head.” 

Daryl had just nodded, too timid to either confirm or rail against his lover’s declaration, and unsure which direction he’d lean in, anyway. 

Later that day, they’d argued about the exact details of Rick’s release. Daryl had wanted to stay and take the other man home, see that he was alright back in his own space and be there for him if he wasn’t. But Rick was insistent. “You have to pick up Carl. He’s not gonna take it well when I’m not there, and I don’t want him to know why. Not yet. You just…you have to go. You’ll be able to stay calm.” 

“And then who’s gonna take you home?” Daryl had demanded. Ford had brought Rick’s stupid rental car to the hospital the day before, but it was the only car they had between them at the moment. 

“I’ll call someone.” 

“Who?” Daryl had pressed, feeling more protective than he thought he would. 

“I dunno.” He’d shrugged like it hadn’t mattered, and that had only aggravated Daryl more. 

“Well pick someone so I can call ‘em.” He’d griped. “We only got a few hours left. I could probably get Aaron down here. Or that neighbor of yours who’s fuckin’ Maggie. Glenn?” 

“Yeah.” Rick had confirmed his name absently, and then shaken his head. “But no. Call…there’s this guy I work with.”

“I ain’t callin’ fucking Ford.” He’d snapped. 

Rick had rolled his eyes. “Morgan.” He’d corrected. “Morgan Jones. I trust him.” 

And that’s how he’d gotten here: waiting for Carl to separate himself from a thick throng of people outside the same park entrance that he and Rick had dropped him off at the day before. He feels itchy at both the anticipation of lying (Rick had called it editing details, but that hadn’t made him feel any better about it) to Carl and at not being with Rick right now. 

When Carl finally sees him he runs over almost immediately. “Hey!” He greets excitedly. “I didn’t know you were coming today.” Then he looks around, lightheartedness visibly seeping out of him when he notices Rick’s absence. “Where’s my dad?” 

“Had a work thing.” Daryl shrugs, going for casual. “He’ll meet us back at your apartment.” 

Carl hesitates, looking torn between concerned and pissed. “But he said he’d be here.” 

Daryl rolls his eyes, trying very hard to act like this is no big deal. “Well, he had a serial killer to catch. Gonna forgive him?” 

As he’d hoped, Carl’s eyes widen with curiosity at Daryl’s word choice. “A serial killer? Like Ted Bundy or Jack the Ripper?” 

“What the hell they teachin’ you shits in school these days?” Daryl shakes his head, and finally moves from where he’d been leaning against the car. “Just get in. We’re gonna stop and get a pizza on the way home.” 

“Cool.” Carl agrees. “We didn’t eat anything all weekend except fish and roasted marshmallows.” 

Once they’re both in the car, the preteen starts yapping about his trip – he’d caught more fish than anybody else, he was the only one who was able to light a fire or put up his tent without help, the parents had brought cellphones even though they weren’t supposed to, and on and on. 

Daryl half-listens, chimes in at the appropriate moments with encouraging grunts and the occasional tidbit of praise, but mostly his mind is elsewhere. 

***

It doesn’t take long for Carl to figure out that something weird is going on. 

Rick tries his best, Daryl has to give him that, but there’s only so much that can be concealed behind fake smiles and a triple-cheese pizza. The whole situation – from the moment he and Carl get to the apartment, to the awkward pleasantries he and Morgan Jones exchange before the older man gracefully excuses himself, to the stilted explanations Rick offers his son about work – makes Daryl cringe. 

They’re about halfway through the pizza when Carl puts his hands in his lap, stares at the paper plate in front of him, and asks quietly, “Who died?” 

Rick startles at the question, but Daryl isn’t surprised. 

“No one died, kiddo.” The detective assures immediately, trying to catch his son’s gaze and failing. “Hey, no one died.” Carl refuses to look up. “What makes you think that?” 

The boy shrugs. “You’re acting weird. And people die.” 

Daryl does some quick math in his head and comes to the conclusion that they’re roughly approaching the anniversary of Shane and Lori’s death. Rick has never shared exact dates with him, but from what he knows it’s got to be late in this month or early into the next one – the anniversary of the day Rick and Carl had lost both of them. He knows it was the same day, a year apart, and has to wonder what that feels like to someone Carl’s age. How much trauma is too much before the kid starts walking around expecting it? 

It’s not the same, but Daryl knows that it had only taken one beating from his old man before every move he made was taken in fear. He likes to think he’s over that now, but he knows he never will be – not entirely. He hopes the same isn’t true for Carl, but is afraid it will be. The same way he’s afraid for Sophia. 

For never having had any of his own, there are far too many kids in Daryl’s life now; burrowing under his skin and making him anxious in ways he couldn’t have imagined even two years ago. He should have seen this coming that first day, when Carl had snuck into Dale’s shop looking for a lost BB gun, but it had been one of those things…clear only in hindsight. 

“I had some trouble with a bad guy at work,” Rick is saying, shooting glances in Daryl’s direction every so often, more nervous right now, trying to lie to his kid, than he ever could be in a room full of sociopaths. 

“A serial killer?” Carl asks. When Rick’s eyebrows raise, he adds, “Daryl said there was a serial killer.” 

“Daryl…” Rick trails off, looking between the two of them. “Daryl probably shouldn’t have told you that.” 

The man in question snorts loudly. Rick shifts his focus. “He doesn’t need to know about stuff like that.”

“Man,” Daryl shakes his head. “He ain’t a kid, Charger.”

“Yes, he _is_.” Rick bites back. 

“Nah, you live through the shit he’s lived through, you ain’t innocent no more.” He finds that he feels unreasonably strongly about this, though he swears less than three hours ago he’d had no problem with Rick’s plan of keeping Carl mostly in the dark about what had happened yesterday. 

“He deserves to have a childhood.” Rick says between gritted teeth. “Not everyone –” He stops abruptly, takes a deep breath and seems to settle a little. “There are parts of the world that he doesn’t need to see yet.” 

Daryl huffs and sits back in his chair, wondering if this counts as a fight. It says a lot, if nothing else, that Rick is level-headed enough to argue with him about this right now. For as much as Rick’s breakdown had terrified Daryl to his very core, the release of all those emotions seems to have been good for him. 

“But what happened yesterday isn’t one of those things,” the older man finishes with a deep sigh, surprising Daryl and Carl both. “There’s stuff…there are things I need to tell you, Carl.” He’s looking at his son now, eyes shimmering with remorse and clarity. “And I don’t know if you’re old enough, I really don’t. You deserve a childhood, I believe that. But Daryl’s right, too. What we’ve been through already…it’s not kid stuff.”

Carl swallows thickly. He’d picked his head up at some point, and is staring at his father now with enough apprehension to make Daryl almost regret his earlier stance. Kids should get to be kids, and it’s damn cryin’ shame that so many of them lose that innocence before it’s time. 

“So…” Carl’s says hesitantly, “we’re going to talk?” 

Rick nods firmly – a man making laws. “Yeah, son, we’re going to talk.”

It’s not a discussion to be had over pizza in the kitchen, so not long after Rick’s decree he ushers Carl into the living room. Daryl hovers awkwardly for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip. He’s almost startled when Rick moves close enough to put a hand on his elbow, but when Daryl’s eyes meet his – instinct at this point more than want or decision – the crystalline depths reach right to the core of him and soothe on impact. 

“You don’t have to stay.”

He feels pain for a moment, sharp and unexpected, but it doesn’t last long. Daryl’s a hunter, first and foremost, and one of the easiest things to spot – once you develop an eye for it – is an animal’s natural tendency towards camouflage in order to protect itself. 

He feels his features relax. “Do you want me to leave?” 

Rick hesitates. That’s all Daryl needs to be sure. 

He stays.

***

The first week after Rick’s breakdown is hard. Carl has to go back to school, and while Daryl technically _could_ afford to take a few weeks off work, he knows he’d be putting Dale and Aaron in a pretty tight bind if he just up and left like that. Rick insists that he’s fine staying home alone with nothing to do, save therapy once a week, but Daryl has his doubts. Boredom and desperation run way too close together, in the wake of something like what Rick had suffered. 

So Daryl spends a full week texting Rick nearly every hour, calling on the evenings he doesn’t see him, and even keeping tabs on Carl – sometimes through Sophia, sometimes by calling the kid himself – because anytime he doesn’t know exactly where Rick is – what he’s doing or thinking or feeling – he can’t get it out of his head. It’s not fear, exactly, because he’s not afraid of losing Rick to this anymore; it’s more like an overarching awareness. An itch he can’t quite reach. 

Rick calls him on it the sixth day, when Daryl swings by his apartment during his lunch break. 

The older man is puttering around a collection of boxes that he’d dragged up from storage, and looks surprised when he opens the door to find Daryl on the other side. 

“I was in the neighborhood,” he shrugs. Rick looks at him like he knows he’s being lied to, and while part of Daryl recoils against the bone deep authority of it, the part of him that’s a lover can’t help but bend. “I was worried.” 

“Hey, I appreciate that,” Rick ducks his head to say it, making sure Daryl’s gaze stays with him. “But it’s…”

“It’s what?” He stands up straighter, expecting the worst. 

“It’s starting to scare Carl.” Rick sighs around the words Daryl hadn’t anticipated. “He thinks you’re trying to protect me from myself, and that’s…”

He hadn’t considered what his behavior might be doing to Rick’s son, and he feels himself flushing with regret. “I’ll cool it.”

“I don’t want…” he trails off with a sigh this time, sitting down on the couch and shaking his head. “We have to find a way to make this work.” 

Daryl’s not the smartest guy in the world – he knows that about himself – but in this moment the solution to their current situation is blindingly obvious to him. “Come stay with us.” 

“What?” Rick looks up, eyes wide with confusion. 

“For a while,” Daryl explains hastily. “Until you go back to work. Carol’s classes are only three days a week, so you won’t be home alone all the time, and you won’t have to shuffle your boy back and forth every other day.”

“That’s…I don’t…I mean…”

Daryl swallows thickly. “You got Dr. Denise today, right?” Rick nods. “She what she thinks. Talk to your kid. Y’all don’t gotta be alone all the time, y’know?”

Rick surges forward and kisses him then, catching Daryl so off guard that by the time he’s gathered the wherewithal to respond the other man is already pulling away. 

“I love you.” Rick blurts, half out of breath and flushed. 

Daryl blinks at the confession, as dazed by its delivery as Rick looks. 

“You don’t have to say it back.” The older man starts talking hastily before Daryl’s even got his mind wrapped all the way around what had just happened. What it changes. “I had to tell you. I just…had to.” 

Daryl nods once and looks at him, at this man who’s consumed every aspect of his life since the moment he’d entered it.

He’d thought he’d known love, thought he’d understood it because of Paul…but nothing between him and Paul had ever felt like it does with Rick. 

He longs for Rick in ways that downright terrify him sometimes. There will be moments when everything feels fake if Rick isn’t with him. And maybe it shouldn’t even be like this. Maybe this is too much, too intense, too _everything_. It feels like the end of the world sometimes, when Rick isn’t at his side, and he doesn’t know if this feeling is ever going to fade in intensity, but he thinks it’ll have to, eventually, because he truly doesn’t know if he can function like this for the rest of his life. 

But he wants to find out. 

He wants forever with Rick Grimes, no matter what that entails. 

“I…” he takes a deep breath. Rick’s eyes are still on him, sparkling blue and beautiful. “Me, too.” He chokes, the words that he really wants to say getting caught somewhere around the pain of his past and the fear he’s still too broken to overcome. 

And for a moment he hates himself for that. Truly hates; more than he’s ever hated anyone else in his life, alive or dead. But then Rick’s face blossoms into this perfect soft little smile filled with acceptance and understanding and _love_ so bright and absolute that makes the rest of the world and all of the failures within it fade to nothing.


	27. Wants and Needs and Everything In Between

***

In the end, the transition isn’t difficult. The biggest roadblock they’d anticipated was the children, and they’re both surprisingly okay with the sudden change. Sophia smiles like she’d seen this coming all along – which, given the crack she’d made a few weeks back about not wanting to share a room with Carl if he ever moved in, might just be true. And Carl simply shrugs at the announcement, muttering something about doing what he has to do for his dad. 

It shows a lot of maturity, that he doesn’t throw a tantrum even though no one would really be able to blame him for it. The Carl that Daryl had met a few months back would have railed against a change like this. The kid’s doing better. Everyone is, in fact. 

Carol doesn’t bat an eye when Daryl runs the idea by her. “We have the space.” She says, like it’s nothing more than a logistical issue. “You’ll have to clear your stuff out of the room downstairs, but there’s still a mattress in there.” 

Rick hadn’t loved the idea of letting his son have a first floor bedroom, but Carol had assured him that most kids don’t start trying to sneak out of the house until a little later into their teenage years. Daryl isn’t so sure about that, as the first time he remembers climbing through his bedroom window in the dead of night was a few months shy of nine, but then again, his life had been very different. 

Glenn helps with the move, promising to keep an eye on the older man’s apartment until he gets back. 

“Shouldn’t be but month or so,” Rick assures him. 

Glenn gives them both a skeptical look, but says only, “Tell Carl I got that expansion pack, and that he’s welcome to visit anytime he wants.” 

Daryl nods along with Rick’s thanks, and then adds, “Say hi to Maggie for us.” 

It’s worth Rick’s elbow in his ribs to see the flush on the kid’s cheeks. 

After Rick and Carl are settled, they begin to fall into a rhythm, the five of them in the house together. Daryl and Carol trade off taking the kids to and from school – it’s easier now that they have the other car, but they’ve both agreed to not ask too much of Rick right now. His time away from work is supposed to be a recovery – same as if he’d gotten shot, or otherwise physically hurt on the job – and it’s better that he spends the time with as little stress as possible. Hanging out with Carl and puttering around the garden he’d set up in the backyard – a suggestion made by Dr. Denise to help him focus his energy on something positive. He’ll cook with Carol sometimes during the day, and spends evenings after the kids go to bed with Daryl. It’s relaxing and easy in every single way it’s supposed to be for him. 

It’s not something Daryl really thinks about; taking on the increased responsibilities that come from having two extra people, an extra _kid_ , in the house. He’s used to spending time with Sophia, now he spends time with Sophia and Carl. There are more words with the older child – more questions that aren’t spoken as softly, more challenges, and a lot more rule breaking. He’d nearly lost his shit when he’d gone out to the barn one afternoon and found Carl messing around with one of his hunting rifles. 

“Don’t tell my dad.” Had been the kid’s first words when he’d been caught. But telling Rick had been the last thought on his mind. 

“Do you have any idea how fucking dangerous this thing is?” He’d snatched the weapon out of the boy’s hands a mite too aggressively. “You could blow your fucking head off.”

“I know how guns work.” Carl had railed back, standing up and attempting to hold his ground, however feeble it might have been. “It’s not even loaded.” 

The ensuing rant – lecture, some parental figures might have called it – had gone on for nearly an hour, and ended only when Carol had come out and managed to dictate a sort of peace between them. Daryl wouldn’t share this incident with Rick, and Carl wasn’t allowed anywhere near a functioning gun that held anything more than BB pellets until he was sixteen. The boy had agreed to the terms readily. 

All in all, the situation works for them. Rick is thriving with the lack of stress, Carl’s anger has simmered immensely, Sophia’s teachers say she’s more social now than they’ve ever seen her, and Carol’s relief reads like a victory march. Daryl doesn’t notice the change in his own demeanor, but Eric corners him on the porch one night after the seven of them have had dinner together and tells him in no uncertain terms that he’s never seen him this happy. 

“I thought having Rick’s son around would stress you out, I have to be honest,” he shares, the extra glass of wine he’d had with dinner putting him squarely in that realm of drunk truth. “But you’ve taken to it, Daryl. To them.”

He grunts his response around a puff of cigarette smoke. “Yeah.” He shrugs. “I guess.” 

Eric shakes his head fondly. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

Daryl freezes, because for as much as he is – really, truly, absolutely _is_ madly in love with Rick – he still hasn’t managed to say the words. 

“We can all see it,” Eric continues, either not noticing Daryl’s silence or recognizing it for what it is and moving past it. “And it looks good on you.” He pauses for a moment and then adds, “Just don’t fuck it up.”

He can’t really blame Eric for saying that – he had, after all, been around the last time Daryl had been _this close_ to fucking up his whole life – but he does huff at the other man in an exaggerated show of annoyance. “Know a good thing when I got it.” He says gruffly. “Ain’t gonna fuck up nothin’.”

Eric smiles like he believes him; which, looking back on it later, really makes the fact that Daryl _does_ fuck everything up the very next day sting so much worse. 

***   
***

Rick wakes up the next morning with Daryl’s arm tight around his waist. The younger man is still mostly asleep, but he’s burrowing into Rick the way he always does when the first tendrils of consciousness are creeping up on him. The detective blinks the sleep out of his eyes and shifts backwards into the hold. “Mornin’,” he mumbles, smiling when Daryl’s lips move against the back of his neck but no recognizable sound comes out. 

Daryl’s mind may not be fully awake yet, but his body is as alert as can be – specifically his dick, which is hard as steel and digging into his ass. Rick sighs a little at the feel of it and rocks backwards without thought, causing his lover to inhale sharply and press forward. 

It doesn’t take long for a rhythm to build between them, sleep-addled and instinctual as it is; and while a part of Rick wants more – to shift around until they’re rid of their clothes and Daryl is fucking him right and proper – a bigger part of him is too invested in _this_ to stop. The motion of their bodies with the added friction of underwear and t-shirts, the slightly skewed angle of Rick’s left elbow, the way Daryl squeezes his hand where their fingers are interlocked every time a thrust hits particularly hard…it’s perfect. 

Rick is panting into his pillow, shifting around just this side of restlessly, wishing he had something more substantial to rub against than the balled up end of a blanket and his own damp boxers. His left hand is twined with Daryl’s, but his right makes up its own mind pretty quick about sating that particular desire. 

He groans loudly once he’s got a fist wrapped around himself, arching his neck just enough to offer his lover an opening. And Daryl takes it immediately; wrapping his own free hand loosely around the column of Rick’s throat and pressing his thumb into the pulse point right at the edge of his jaw. Rick’s body recognizes that cue before Rick himself manages to piece it together – still sleep-drunk and lust-hazed as he is – but he responds to it automatically, bucking his hips harder and gripping himself tighter. “Fuck, yeah.” He rasps, barely more than a breath. “Daryl, fuck. Daryl…”

His lover’s grip tightens hard around his throat, and Rick’s chest constricts with something that definitely isn’t fear or pain. His cock throbs desperately as he listens to Daryl groan out his own release, but it isn’t until he feels the hot, wet mess of his lover’s come between them that he finds that edge, too. By the time he gets there, Daryl’s dragged his hand down to help Rick out stroking his cock. Between the two of them, it barely takes another half-minute for Rick’s come to join Daryl’s in staining their sheets. 

After a few seconds of kissing his neck and shoulders, Daryl’s whole body relaxes and his breathing evens out, as if he’s fully prepared to go right back to sleep. Rick, on the other hand, is already squirming at the sensation of drying come adhering his boxers to his dick and inner thighs. 

“C’mon,” he groans, turning so that he can nudge his half-coherent lover. “We need’ta shower.” 

Daryl’s arm tightens around him. “Stay.” He insists, though it comes out more like “’ay,” and Rick only recognizes the word for what it was meant to be because he knows Daryl; is so intimately familiar with the younger man’s voice and gestures that he can pull meaning out of half a syllable.

That thought makes him smile warmly, because he’s missed this – connecting to someone on a level that mimics actual mind reading – and to have found it so quickly, so effortlessly, with Daryl makes his heart soar. Which also does wonders for its healing. 

Taking a deep breath, Rick turns around and settles against his lover, pressing close enough to kiss the jut of his collarbone. He ignores their obvious need to change clothes and the clock that’s ticking down the minutes until Daryl will be forced to get up and go to work. “Yeah,” he says instead, matching his breaths to the slow, relaxed ones coming from the younger man. “Yeah, I’ll stay.”

Daryl hums contentedly. 

An hour later, as Daryl dashes through the bedroom, dripping wet from his lightening quick shower and cursing out loud at having slept so late, Rick can only laugh fondly at his antics. This earns him a hard glare, of course, but Rick knows better by now than to take that seriously. “I love you.” He says in response to it, keeping his expression soft. 

Daryl stops cold in the middle of shrugging his shirt on, holding both his arms at an awkward angle as he meets Rick’s gaze squarely. “Me, too.” 

Rick beams at him, which is enough to reanimate the younger man and remove the potential stress from the moment. Rick had done it on purpose, and will continue to do it until Daryl is comfortable, completely comfortable, hearing those words. Until he believes that Rick doesn’t need to hear them back to be okay. 

Because he honestly doesn’t. He’d like to. Hell, he _longs_ to hear them, if he’s being truthful with himself about it – but it really is just that: a want. A want, not a need. Because he knows Daryl feels the same way, just like he knows that the younger man not saying it has everything to do with his past traumas and nothing to do with Rick himself. 

For Rick it’s easy; all he has to do is wait. For Daryl, he’s quite sure, it’s much harder – an invisible barrier that he has to demolish all on his own. Rick’s only viable course of action at this point is to provide support. _I’ll be waiting for you on the other side_ , he tries to get Daryl to hear, _no matter how long it takes_. 

He has a feeling, however, that it actually won’t take that long. Daryl’s demons might be powerful things, but the younger man is so much stronger than he gives himself credit for. 

***

Later that afternoon, Rick comes in after having spent most of the day outside in his garden – if one can call the plot of land in Daryl’s backyard where he’s begun planting a variety of vegetables a functioning garden yet – and finds Carol sitting at the kitchen table pouring over a couple textbooks and a few pages of notes. 

He pauses after he gets a bottle of water out of the fridge and watches her, really watches. He sees a focused intensity that most cops would envy. “So, are you planning on becoming a teacher?” 

Carol startles at his question. “Rick.” She looks up at him, expression clouded with concentration. “I didn’t hear you come in.” 

“Sorry,” he says, but doesn’t leave. “I was just wondering. Daryl says you’re focusing on early childhood education.”

Carol cringes a little, and sighs deeply. “Trauma.” 

“What?” He asks, fiddling with the cap on his water bottle and using a napkin from the holder on the table to wipe the sweat out of his eyes. He sits down at the table without being asked, right across from her. 

“Early childhood trauma,” she repeats the words all together, and Rick pauses. “How it effects development and learning.” 

Rick absorbs her words critically. “You lied to him?” 

“At first,” she takes a deep breath. “At first I wasn’t sure if I was going to stick with it. Wasn’t sure if abuse was something I could spend every day learning about. Thinking about.” 

“But it’s been over six months?” It’s half a question, half an accusation. He really doesn’t like the thought of someone lying to Daryl, especially someone he trusts as much as Rick knows he trusts Carol. 

“It has.” She nods, meeting his gaze unwaveringly. “And I know I’ll have to tell him. Soon, probably. I just don’t want him thinking that it’s about him.”

“Is it?” Rick asks, and he can feel his own expression morphing into one he uses on the job while interrogating a suspect. He can’t help it. 

“No, Rick,” She answers, her voice steely. “Mostly it’s about my daughter.” 

Rick lowers his eyes. “Right. Sorry.” 

Carol’s silent for a few minutes. Rick feels like the tension between them is steadily seeping all of the oxygen out of the room and if one of them doesn’t make a move soon they’ll both suffocate from it. But there’s no reprieve; not until Carol’s quiet voice breaks through with, “And maybe it’s a little bit about him, too.”

Rick snaps his gaze up. “You said –”

“Do you know what I pray for at night, Rick?” She interrupts him; he snaps his mouth shut and shakes his head. “I pray that my daughter will be able to have a normal life despite what my husband put her through. That I won’t lose her to this…this cycle of misery that’s so easy to get lost in. You’re a cop. You’ve been a cop for years. You’ve seen it, haven’t you?”

Rick wants to lie to her, but knows it would be a disservice to both her intelligence and her experiences. “Yeah, I have.” 

“I have, too.” She looks at him intently, not letting either of them escape the realities they’ve faced. “Women who find men they know will hurt them. Sons who grow up thinking that’s the only way they can be, daughters thinking that’s what love is. Daryl managed to break that cycle, Rick. He got away. And if you don’t know how amazing that is –”

“I do.” He interrupts this time, clearing his throat around the sudden lump that’s lodged there. “I really do.” 

“Well, that’s what I want for Sophia.” She says, nodding a little as if making her mind up all over again. “And for every other kid who’s been through what they have. That’s what I’m learning about, Rick. That’s what I’m fighting for.” 

Rick reaches forward before he can think about it too hard and grabs onto one of Carol’s hands, squeezing gently when her eyes go wide with surprise. “I don’t know how he’ll react to finding out,” he says honestly, smiling a little to soften the bluntness of his words. “But Daryl _will_ be proud of you. I believe that.” 

She squeezes his hand. “Thank you, Rick.”

***  
***

“Daryl!” Dale’s shout cuts through loud enough to be heard over his air hammering and through the ear plugs he’s wearing, which is no small feat. 

The mechanic cuts the machine, his ears ringing from the sudden silence. “What?” He calls back, using his wrist to wipe at some of the sweat pooling on his forehead. He’s three bays away from the shop door and yet can read the crease in Dale’s brow effortlessly. 

“You got a phone call.” 

He walks to the service desk quickly, pulling away his earplugs as he tries to convince himself that nothing bad is about to happen. He knows it’s a lie, because he’s developed a pretty keen sense for predicting when chaos is about to strike. But still. Sometimes he’s wrong. 

“Yeah?” He says into the phone as soon as he gets there. He imagines a whole list of people who might be calling him here and what each of those calls might mean. He’s still not prepared for the voice that greets him on the other end. 

“Daryl?” It’s shaky, a little afraid, and oh so very _young_. 

“Carl?” He looks around the shop, as if the cure for his confusion could be found within these walls. “What’s going on?”

“I…” the boy trails off, and Daryl hears it when he sniffs a little bit. “I, I did something stupid.” 

Daryl’s heart stutters in his chest. 

One time, not long after they’d moved in with him, Sophia had fallen out of a tree while she was out in the woods playing. Daryl had been with her, and she hadn’t been hurt beyond a few bruises and a twisted ankle, but watching her fall had been one of the most terrifying moments of Daryl’s life. And it had had more than a normal person’s fair share of fearful moments to contend with. That’s how he feels right now – the sharp pain that accompanies panic. Absolute terror. 

“Are you okay?” He asks first, because that’s the most important thing. He tries to keep his voice calm, but it’s not easy and he doesn’t quite manage it. 

“I-I think so.” The boy stutters. “I…yeah.”

He takes a deep breath, tries to convince his heart to slow down before it implodes. “Where are you?” 

“King County.” The boy blurts, words coming out fast and slurred together. “I skipped school and took a bus, but someone stole my backpack and now I can’t get home.” 

“Are you hurt?” Daryl asks sharply, imaging all sorts of things that might go hand-in-hand with _stole my backpack_. 

“No,” Carl sounds absolutely miserable when he says it, almost like it would be better if he _were_. “But you can’t tell my dad.” 

“Carl, where _are_ you?” He demands, refusing to address anything else for the time being. “Exactly?” 

Carl exhales loudly, almost as if he’s trying to hold back a sob. “The cemetery.” 

***

It takes Daryl less than an hour to get to King County, though any reasonable GPS would clock the trip at an hour and a half, minimum. 

When he gets there he doesn’t stop to admire the scenery, the peaceful nature of the place, or the other people lingering around. He hones in on his lover’s son and makes his way to where he’s standing, underneath a tree about fifty yards from the entrance, without once taking his eyes off him. 

“Carl.” He breathes when he gets close enough. The boy’s eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, and he blinks up at Daryl with the same desperate, lost look that Rick wears sometimes when he’s thinking about Shane or his late wife. 

“Don’t be mad.” Carl pleads with him, using his sleeve to wipe at his nose. The thermal shirt he’s wearing is a size or so too big – bought for him by some grandparent for Christmas with the intent of being grown into, but right now it just makes him look young. Painfully so. 

“I’m not mad.” Daryl sighs. He isn’t, either. He’s scared and relieved and nervous, all at once, but he isn’t angry. He nods towards the headstone a few feet away from where they’re standing. “I get it.”

_Lori Grimes_  
1976-2011  
Beloved Wife and Mother  
We’ll Miss Her Always 

“It’ll be a year this Sunday.” Carl swallows thickly. “I didn’t want my dad…I didn’t want to remind him.”

Daryl sighs deeply. “You know he’s not gonna forget.”

“I know that.” Carl snaps, petulantly furious for a series of heartbeats before an almost manic nervousness settles all around him. “He’s just seeing that doctor now, and we’re all being so careful. It’s like it was right after Shane died, when him and mom stopped talking about anything important and I wasn’t allowed to even mention Shane or he’d get all quiet, and she’d cry. He’s buried right over there, y’know. Shane is.” He gestures vaguely to their right, a spot deeper into the cemetery. “And I just wanted to come here by myself, so my dad wouldn’t get upset, so it could just be me and her, and Shane. But now…now you’re here and I messed up and my phone got stolen and I don’t know what to do.” 

“I…” 

Before he can come up with something to say that might have been appropriately emotional and comforting, Carl’s heaving breaths turn into scantly muffled sobs. The boy collapses where he’s standing, falling into a clumsy Indian-style with his shoulders hunched up and his head in his hands.

Daryl closes his eyes and takes a deliberately calming breath. _Don’t panic_ , he tells himself sternly, because he’s itching to. All of sudden he’s cursing himself for coming here straight from Dale’s, for not calling Rick – or Carol, or Michonne, or fucking _anybody_ who might have been able to help him with this. He’d reacted on instinct – the one to protect. But now that he’s here, and there’s nothing physical to defend against, he’s truly at a loss. 

So he forces himself to think. Once upon a time not all that long ago, he’d been exactly where Carl is – a little more broken around the edges and a helluva lot less trusting – but damaged in an undeniably parallel manner. What would he have wanted in a situation like this? _To be left alone_ , an old voice supplies at once. Even as he’s thinking it, though, he knows it’s a lie. He’d always known that was a lie. 

He acts before he can talk himself out of it; he sits down on the grass next to Carl, just close enough that he can reach out and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Carl doesn’t startle at the touch the way Sophia or Daryl himself would have; rather, he leans into it. His body absorbs the offered comfort as his sobs grow louder and less controlled. 

It’s a type of pure grief that adults are trained to hide from others. Which is a lesson that Daryl had learned too many times to count. It’s a secret, this sorrow, and others will only make it worse. 

Only that’s not true. Because Daryl doesn’t want to make it _worse_ for Carl. He wants Rick’s son to feel _better_. And if what Carl needs for that to happen is to sob violently on a sunny afternoon in the middle of a cemetery next to his mother’s gravestone, if that’s what it takes to ease some of the hurt and misery out of him, then Daryl will sit here with him until he’s done. 

***

“You should have called me.” Rick hisses, approximately three hours later. Daryl and Carl have returned from the latter’s hometown, and while his lover was gentle and caring with his son, once the boy is safely upstairs and out of earshot – the older man turns on his with an expression so foreboding that Daryl actually has to take a step back. 

It makes him angry and scared, though not at all in equal measures, that Rick is looking at him like he’s a criminal. Like he’s his _brother_. “I did.” He tries to say it calmly, but it comes out like a defense, which really doesn’t help anything at all. 

“On your way home.” Rick takes a step closer to him, but Daryl refuses to back up again. If this is how Rick wants to play this, then fine. He knows it’s not about him, not really – just all the shit in Rick’s fucked up head getting the best of him – but he also refuses to play weak. Not here. Not like this. 

_“Take a breath.”_ Michonne tells him, when he’s getting too worked up during a fight. 

_“Just breathe.”_ Paul used to say, like calming down was something easy that everyone could do if they tried hard enough. 

“You should’ve called me right away.” Rick continues, completely oblivious to Daryl’s grinding teeth and clenched fists. “When he called you.” He takes another step closer and points a finger at his chest. “I should have _known_.” 

Daryl snaps a little. He grabs Rick’s hand with lightening quick precision, and though the older man’s eyes go wide, he doesn’t back down, either. Daryl doesn’t take the moment farther than that. “And why do’ya think you _didn’t_ , huh Rick?” He takes his own step closer, not letting go of his lover’s wrist. “Why didn’t he call _you_?”

Rick’s eyes narrow. His back straightens. Despite the intensity of the moment, despite the fact that they’re fighting – really fighting, for maybe the first time since they’d gotten together (Daryl’s not totally sure what counts as a fight and what can be filed away as a mere misunderstanding or disagreement, but he is positive that this right here is nothing petty or easily forgotten) – despite that most of his thoughts are filtering through a lightning rod of anger, Daryl can’t help it that a tiny portion of his brain is cataloguing Rick’s current ferocity with a hint of pride. 

He _needs_ someone who can go toe to toe with him and not back down. 

“Are you saying I’ve been a bad father?” Rick asks, voice seething with anger even as Daryl sees the tiniest trace of real hurt flash through his eyes. 

“No,” he sighs, because it’s the truth and he’s not a cruel man. “I’m saying your kid needs some help. More help than you can give him alone.” 

For a moment Daryl thinks Rick is going to cave. He should – after all, what Daryl’s saying isn’t wrong or even all that out of line. And at this point, Rick himself has been in therapy for several weeks. He can’t be against it. But for some reason – pride or fear or just plain stubbornness – Rick doesn’t cave. Instead he narrows his gaze, finally wrenching his hand away from Daryl’s grasp. “That’s not your call. He’s not your kid.”

Daryl snorts. “I never fuckin’ said that he was.” And he hadn’t. He isn’t even hurt by Rick’s words, not really. He loves Rick and without a doubt is fond of the man’s son, but he hasn’t been in their life long enough to consider himself anything like a second father to the boy. Sophia, yeah, maybe Carol and Aaron and Dale and everyone else have him dead to rights when it comes to his feelings about her, but Carl…Carl belongs to Rick. “But y’all are livin’ in my fuckin’ house, Rick and I see shit, alright? I know what it’s like…goddamn it, Charger, why are you even fucking fighting me?” 

“Because you didn’t call me and he isn’t your son.” Rick’s rage is boiling at this point, enough so that Daryl can recognize it because he’s seen it in himself more times than he can count. 

Instead of pressing the issue, pushing back until one or both of them does something they can never take back, Daryl – for not the first time in his life, but it still feels a little bit like he’s being possessed by someone much older and wiser and calmer than he is every time it happens – steps away. Removes himself from the situation. 

“There’s a punching bag out in the garage.” He says, turning away from the older man and snatching the keys he’d dropped less than half an hour before. “Do yourself a favor a take a couple swings at it before you let anyone else see’ya all worked up, a’ight?” 

“You’re leaving?” Rick exclaims, incredulous. 

“One of us has’ta, or this ain’t gonna end pretty.” Daryl says simply, right before he turns his back on the older man and walks out the front door, trying not to let the memory of those wide blue eyes get to him more than they already have.


	28. The Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was doing so good with writing, guys. I just want you to know that. I was getting a little done every day and was _this close_ to having this chapter done last week, and then do you know what happened? I was at work the other day and it started raining and a few of the guys rushed outside to roll up their car windows and then one of them came back inside with a mother fucking goddamn KITTEN. This tiny, meowing, wet little ball of fur had somehow gotten into his car the night before (apparently there are a lot of stray cats in his neighborhood) and stayed there for at least _sixteen hours_ before he found her. And I took one look at the little goober and said “yes, mine now, thank you, move along.” Which is my long way of saying I accidentally acquired a _four week old, one fucking pound_ kitten and all of my non-sleeping and working hours have been dedicated to her care and spoiling.

***

It doesn’t feel like running away when he’s not on his motorcycle.

Cars and trucks…they’re climate controlled and safe. People live in their cars sometimes. Daryl had spent ten months sleeping on a mattress in the back of a ’87 Chevy Express when he was twenty. He’d felt safe there. It had been the first time in his life that the place he’d been living had been just _his_. Paul had been gone by then – left him to peruse some greater good that Daryl hadn’t even been able to fathom – and Daryl had been truly alone for the first time in his life. No Merle, no father, no other kids just looking for a way out, no lover – just him, a van, and the ocean. If there’s one thing that Daryl truly hates about his life these days, it’s that he doesn’t live near a body of water. 

He’d borrowed Dale’s truck when he’d gotten the phone call from Carl earlier, and while it would make all the sense in the world to drive back to A&A’s and switch it out now for his bike, Daryl doesn’t. 

He walks away from Rick with anger still coiling hot in his gut, but he doesn’t take his bike along for the ride. Because he’s not running away. 

Dale’s Tundra has air conditioning, a radio preset to all classic rock stations, and when it starts raining about twenty minutes into his drive Daryl doesn’t have to worry about how cold he’s going to get or if he’ll be able to survive the trip. 

The truck protects him, and Daryl smiles softly to himself at that thought as the rain continues its steady patter against his shelter. 

***  
***

“Did you guys fight because of me?” Is Carl’s first question after Rick takes a few deep breaths, calms down considerably, and heads into his son’s room. 

“No,” Rick sits down on the edge of the boy’s mattress. They’ve only been here a few weeks, but Carl has already turned this room into something uniquely his own; there are posters on the walls, clothes strewn about the floor, and books and comics piled up in the corners. 

_“Gonna have’ta build him a bookshelf.”_ Daryl had commented the other day when they’d been puttering around the house together. 

_“I can just buy him one.”_ Rick had argued, and the debate that had followed about handmade furniture versus the cheap crap you can get at Walmart hadn’t touched on any of the implications they were both making about permanence. 

“Then why were you yelling?” Carl asks, a little accusing but mostly nervous. 

Rick runs a hand over his face tiredly. “Because sometimes grownups yell when they’re scared.” 

Almost on cue, a flash of lightening illuminates the world right outside Carl’s window. Rick cringes at the thought of Daryl outside alone in a storm. 

“Did he have his motorcycle?” Rick asks his son then, because in the drama that had taken place he hadn’t even thought to ask. “Did Daryl come and get you on his bike?”

Carl shakes his head slowly, looking between his father and the window. “He was in a truck. The one I helped Aaron wash that day I snuck into the shop.” 

Dale’s pickup, Rick realizes, and sighs a hefty breath of release. 

“Is he gone?” Carl’s looking at him now like he’d just figured something out. “Did Daryl leave?” 

“He…went for a drive.” Rick says carefully. 

“Because you guys fought.” Carl fills in. Rick’s not sure how to respond for a moment, and in the void of silence, Carl keeps talking. “Mom used to do that. When you guys fought she would always leave. Drive. And then she’d come home and nobody would talk about anything. I hated it.” 

“Is that why you snuck off today?” Rick asks, realizing that it might be the truth as soon as he says it. “So we’d have to talk about it?” 

“I just wanted to…go there.” Carl ducks his head a little, has a hard time meeting Rick’s gaze. “It’ll be a year…”

“On Sunday.” Rick fills in, nodding shortly. “I know.” 

“I didn’t wanna make you sad.” Carl says pleadingly. “Things’ve been…I dunno. Better. Since we came here.” 

Carl probably believes what he’s saying, Rick realizes, but subconsciously his son had to have known that Rick would find out about his trip to the cemetery. If not through the events that had wound up transpiring, then at least when his school called about his unexcused absence. Carl, whether he realizes it or not, is _begging_ for his help. 

And the most ironic part of the whole thing is that Rick wouldn’t have even been able to see that if it weren’t for his sessions with Dr. Denise. Therapy has helped him so much already, and he feels deeply ashamed, now, that he’d fought with Daryl over the reality of Carl needing it, too. 

“You’re not going to make me sad, Carl.” Rick says steadily. “What happened to your mom and Shane…that’s always going to…it’s always going to hurt. Both of us. And sometimes we’re going to be sad. _Both of us_. But you wanting to visit them, or talk about them…that’s never going to be a bad thing.”

Rick knows he’s lying. Just the mention of Shane’s name when he’s not prepared for it is enough to make his heart ache. And Lori’s ghost will always be a part of him, always throb painfully in the background at any reminder of the way things used to be. 

But Rick’s always been a firm believer in not giving kids guilt. He’d do anything for his son. Anything at all. Hiding the occasional twinge of pain at the reminder of the past is nothing more than his obligation as a parent. 

“I should’ve told you.” Carl admits, and though his words are quiet Rick has no trouble understanding. “I shouldn’t’ve snuck off.” 

“No, you shouldn’t have.” Rick agrees. 

“And I should have called you, after my backpack got stolen.” His son continues. “I don’t even know why I called Daryl instead. I mean, I guess ‘cause I didn’t wanna make you mad, or worry. But I…”

“It’s okay.” Rick says calmly when Carl seems unable to finish his thought. “You can always call me, Carl, even when you think I’m going to be mad. You know that right?” He meets the boy’s gaze and doesn’t let go until he sees the answering nod. “Good.” Rick nods then, too. It’s so important that his son understands this. “But if it ever happens that you can’t, or don’t want to call me, I’m never gonna be upset that you called Daryl, either.” 

Carl’s eyes go a little wide. “But…you guys fought.” 

“That wasn’t about you.” Rick says firmly. He’s still a little angry at Daryl – hurt, if he’s being honest with himself, that his lover hadn’t included him in this. But none of what he’s feeling towards Daryl has anything to do with his son. “You did the right thing calling him. Okay?” 

Carl swallows a few times and then nods. “Okay.” 

“I want you safe.” Rick reiterates. “Always. And I trust Daryl. I know you do, too.”

“Yeah, I…yeah.” Carl smiles a little. 

“So it’s okay.” Rick finishes. 

It’s not okay, not really. He’s still angry at Daryl for something that isn’t really his fault and he’s not sure how he’s going to get over that. He’s also not sure what it means for them that Daryl had walked away and that Rick had let him. 

“Is he going to come back?” Carl asks a little while later, so softly that Rick almost doesn’t hear it. 

“Who? Daryl?” 

Carl nods. 

“Of course he is.” Rick says easily, clenching his teeth hard at the wave of anger and fear that tries to overpower him. 

Carl believes his declaration completely, and in the wake of the peace that it brings the boy, father and son spend the next several hours talking about all sorts of other things. Rain beats steadily against the roof above them as they have many conversations long overdue, and by the time Carl is worn out from it, the emotional upheaval of it all, Rick thinks it’s time for the clouds outside to part; to allow the sun entrance into the world once again in a show of comradery. 

That’s the way it would go, if this were a movie or a song, but life is a more devious beast, and the sky remains bleak for the rest of the day and well into the night. 

***  
***

“Well,” the voice on the other side of the screen door is calm, just like it always has been. “Daryl Dixon standing on my porch in the middle of a thunderstorm. They do say that some things never change.” 

“They also say it’s common courtesy to invite people inside ‘fore they freeze to death,” Daryl points out, his snark all for show and mostly out of habit. 

“Careful, son. I’ve got a twelve-gauge I still remember how to use.” Despite his almost-real sounding threat, the front door is opened wide enough to grant him entrance a moment later. 

Daryl doesn’t hesitate to cross the threshold. After he shakes the water out of his hair – in a manner not dissimilar to that of a grateful mutt – the younger man nods at his old acquaintance, “Hershel.” 

“Daryl,” the farmer repeats, all fond smiles this time. “Well, don’t just stand there.” He says after they spend a few seconds staring at one another. “Take your shoes off and come into the kitchen. I have tea.” 

“I hate tea.” Daryl grumbles, but follows the man dutifully nonetheless. 

_“Come into the house, son,” the greying farmer smiles pleasantly, trying to get Daryl to let his guard down. But the teenager knows better by now – there’s not an adult in the world that isn’t out to get him._

_“Already said I didn’t mean to trespass,” Daryl wipes his sleeve at his runny nose and backs himself farther into a corner of the barn. “You didn’t have signs up or nothin’. I ain’t stealin’, I swear.”_

_“I believe you.” The old farmer – he’d called himself Hershel before, but Daryl ain’t in the habit of learning people’s names. “I’m not angry at you, son. I’d just like it if you came inside, maybe dried off some? Looks like it’s gonna be raining for a while yet and I’d hate for you to be off wandering around in that.”_

_“Why?” Daryl bites. “You don’t even know me.”_

_“Maybe not,” the old man agrees, and stays crouched where he is in front of Daryl even though he’s probably way too old to find the position comfortable, “But maybe I’d like to.”_

_“Why?” He asks again, angrier this time. “You a perv or something?”_

_The white-haired man lets out a deep breath at that and then moves his arm – the suddenness of the motion has Daryl flinching hard. A heartbeat later he realizes that Hershel had only moved to brush some of his too-long hair out of his face, but the damage is done in an instant._

_Don’t react. He’s not supposed to react. Because when he does shit like that, act scared even though he ain’t got no reason to, people notice. Usually Daryl’s a lot better at keeping things hidden, but he’s cold and hungry and lost and wet. He’s been in the woods almost three days now and as much as he doesn’t like home most of the time, he’d do anything at this point for a roof, a sandwich, and his bed._

_“Those bruises you’ve got there look pretty fresh,” the farmer ignores Daryl’s insult and nods instead towards the boy’s face. He knows he has a black eye, a busted lip, and at least a few purple and yellow smudges around his neck, but he hasn’t looked at them himself – save in the reflection of creek water – since he’d run off a few days back, and therefore doesn’t know for sure what this stranger is seeing._

_“Got into a fight.” Daryl says, and then looks up with a nasty expression on his face and a snarl in his voice, channeling Merle’s aggression because if there’s one thing his brother is always great at it’s getting people to leave him alone. “I beat a kid half to death with my bare hands. Can still feel his heartbeat in my hands. Took off ‘cause if the cops find me they’ll shot me on the spot, and if you don’t lemme go, old man, I’ll kill ya. Ya hear me? I’ll kill ya.”_

_Hershel blinks at him a few times, eyebrows all smooshed together like he might be angry, and for one painful moment Daryl’s stomach drops out from under him– because he can’t defend himself the way Merle does. He’s not tough like his big brother. He can’t win in a fight, not even against this old man, not when he hasn’t eaten in four days and doesn’t even have a gun on him._

_But then Hershel’s deep frown smooths itself into a small, kind of sad, smile. “If you don’t want to come inside with me son, I understand, but if you wait here for a few minutes I can bring you out some food.”_

_“You’ll call the cops.” Daryl immediately accuses._

_“Even if I did, you’d hear them coming long before they got close enough to take you away,” Hershel gestures over his shoulder the barn doors. “Gravel road, you remember seeing it before you came in here?”_

_Daryl nods hesitantly._

_“And you know what cars on gravel sound like, right?”_

_He nods again, a little more confidently this time._

_“Well, I’m not expecting any visitors tonight,” the farmer says easily. “So if you hear someone coming you’ll know I lied to you and you’ll be able to run off, back to the woods. Until then, though, you can stay dry in here, at least, and if you decide to stay I’ll bring you some lasagna.”_

_“I hate lasagna.” Daryl says, though it doesn’t sound very convincing, even to him. Truth is, he’s never had lasagna, he just hadn’t been able to think of a better argument._

_“You haven’t tried the secret Greene Family recipe yet.” The old man waves him off with a confident chuckle, finally getting to his feet and smiling fondly down at where Daryl is curled up in the farthest corner from the door. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, son. Trust me.”_

***  
***

Sophia’s not thrilled when she gets home from school and Daryl isn’t there. Carol has classes today, and won’t be back until right before the kids go to bed, but that’s a well-worn part of their routine. Daryl not being there is something else altogether. 

Rick’s spared having to tell the girl anything about the situation, as Daryl himself had apparently already called her cell at some point and filled her in. Rick’s not totally sure what he’d told her, but Sophia isn’t looking at him like he’s the scum of the earth at any rate, so that’s nice. 

Carl’s still a little withdrawn from the events of the day, which Rick figures is only natural, but Sophia’s presence seems to lift his spirits considerably. It’s nice to see, at first; as Rick watches his son and his friend interact, he’s reminded that everything will be okay eventually, for all of them. 

That’s at first, though. 

Later, after _at first_ fades into the general chaos that apparently fills the hours in between after school and bed, Rick starts to have second thoughts. About everything, if he’s being honest with himself. 

Looking after two kids is _fucking hard_.

He’s always known that Carl can be a handful, but Sophia is so sweet and soft-tempered that he really hadn’t thought their combined presence would be worse than a hassle and a half. Boy had he bene wrong. Five hours with the two pre-teens feels more like several decades, and though Rick is absolutely no stranger to taking care of _a_ kid, adding a second to the mix is like upgrading a light summer shower to a goddamn tsunami. 

Rick feels like he doesn’t catch his breath once until Carol gets home, and by the time she walks through the door, he’s collapsed on the couch with marinara sauce all down the front of his shirt and mud drying in his hair. 

“Well hi there, Detective,” Carol smiles coyly when she sees him. “Kids gave you the runaround, huh?”

“Is it always like this?” He asks, looking up at her with such honest exhaustion. 

“Pretty much.” She nods easily, seeing the state he’s in and relating to it instantly. “I had a friend tell me once that having one kid is like having a pet, but two kids is like having a zoo.” Rick snorts. “Didn’t really believe it ‘til…” she waves her arm, “y’know.”

She says the words fondly enough, but suddenly the low chord of guilt that’s been thrumming in Rick’s gut all day peaks painfully. How selfish has he been these past few weeks? He knows that Carol and Daryl have been shielding him from the responsibilities of daily life, in an effort to help him heal from the emotional trauma of finally dealing with Lori’s death, and in the wake of what happened with Phillip Blake, they’ve both been stepping out in front of any stress that might come his way and absorbing it themselves. 

He’d known this. He’s been appreciating that since day one. 

He just hadn’t _known_. 

“I’m a fucking asshole.” Rick grumbles, sitting up just enough to drop his head in his hands. “Everything just…sucks and it’s falling apart and I can’t get ahold of anything.”

When Carol doesn’t respond, Rick risks a glance up at her. At his pointedly raised eyebrow she takes a breath. “I don’t think anything’s falling apart.” She says carefully. “I think a lot of things are changing, for you, and sometimes that feels like spiraling. But it’s not.” 

Rick thinks about her words for a moment, eventually nodding. He’s not sure agrees, but it’s something to think about later. 

“As for whether or not you’re an asshole,” she goes on, perfectly blunt with her arms crossed over her chest. “I’m sure the explanation I got from Daryl about why he wouldn’t be home tonight was wonderfully abridged, so I’m not sure about that yet.” The question in her tone is unmistakable. 

Rick flushes a little and ducks his gaze. “I got mad at him for acting like a parent to Carl.” He sighs. “I got mad ‘cause Carl chose him over me.” 

“Daryl connects with kids, Rick.” Carol says softly. “Especially ones that are hurting.” 

“I know.” Rick agrees. “I don’t even think it was…” He lets out another ragged breath. “It should’ve been me, but I know why it wasn’t. I’m just having a hard time…” _letting everyone down, not being useful enough to even look after my own kid anymore, letting you guys raise him for me while I plant vegetables all day, pushing everyone away_. “I’m just having a hard time.” 

Carol hums softly. “We all are, Rick.” She tells him firmly. “That’s no reason to stop living.” 

***

After Carol disappears into Sophia’s room to say goodnight to the girl, Rick decides to make his own trip to Carl’s. Because all of a sudden the reality of the situation that they’re in seems glaringly obvious, and what he has to do next is really very simple. 

Carl looks up from the book he’s reading as soon as Rick sits down on the bed. He smiles at the boy to let him know that everything is going to be okay. 

“Right before we moved here, we had a talk.” Rick says to his son, phrasing his words carefully. “About how the things you’ve gone through have been tough to deal with. Not kid stuff.”

“I remember.” Carl nods. “Daryl was there.” 

Rick’s not sure why his son adds that. Maybe just reminding himself. Maybe reminding Rick. But either way, it’s important. 

“Right,” he agrees, and takes one last steadying breath. “And you know I’ve been talking to someone about the stuff that’s happened the past couple years. About your mom and Shane.” 

“The doctor that’s supposed to make you feel better.” Carl agrees, eyes narrowing a little in suspicion. “What about her?” 

“I think it’s time that you and I have another talk.” Rick swallows hard but doesn’t waver. “A serious one, about you going to see the same type of doctor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your thoughts, as always, are love :)


	29. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...Sunday happened. 
> 
> Please enjoy this thing now which is not a giant bag of pain.

***

After the kids are in bed, and Carol’s holed up for the evening with her textbooks, Rick heads outside to the garage.

The rain had lessened to a steady drizzle about an hour ago, and now the whole world smells fresh.

There’s a heavy bag in the far corner of Daryl's garage – just enough space around it to practice your footing while you’re hitting. There are hand wraps on a nearby shelf, which Rick fastens around his wrists and knuckles with pure muscle memory. 

Thing is, Rick’s never been much of a fighter. Sure, he’d learned the basics back at the academy, he’s got a decent right hook, and he’ll never hesitate to defend himself or someone else, but that’s just it; he’s much better suited playing defense. He doesn’t have that fire in his belly like Daryl does; that chord of aggression that’s only ever soothed by the destruction of something else.

Rick starts in on the punching bag with hard, quick jabs that aren’t coordinated or efficient in the least. He puts all his energy into every hit, which would be horribly detrimental were he in an actual fight, but he’s not, and the catharsis feels good.

_“I gotta fight, Rick. I have to. Gotta hit shit somewhere like that, where it’s safe. Otherwise I’ll ruin everything.”_

Rick understands it on an intellectual level, in the abstract, but it’s not something he and Daryl will ever have in common. Maybe it’s better that way, though. Good in the long run that they both have things in their lives that the other will never fully understand. And people to share those things with, separate from one another.

Daryl will never be able to completely grasp the level of trust that Rick puts in Morgan and Abraham every day, just like the bond that Daryl and Michonne share as fighters will forever be a little lost on Rick.

_“The people who come here…sometimes it’s like this. Just anger. That’s why they’re here.”_ Michonne had told him that once, right after Rick had seen Daryl fighting for the first time. And he’d understood.

Shane would have been a better person if he’d had someone like Michonne in his life.

Looking back on it sometimes, Rick realizes that Shane might have been better off in a lot of ways if Rick hadn’t been such a central figure in his world. It’s not a guilt thing, not anymore. It’s just now that some of the grief has worn off, Rick can see that their friendship had been more than a tad codependent.

In another world, Shane and Daryl might have gotten along better with each other than with Rick. A younger Daryl and Shane at the peak of their violent streaks might have interlocked with one another so absolutely that nothing short of the end of the world could have separated them.

Then again, they also might have destroyed one another.

It’s a useless train of thought, in the end, but that doesn’t stop Rick from following it through. As he continues his assault on the punching bag he imagines it: Shane and Daryl in the world together. What Shane might have said had he lived long enough to see Rick’s interactions with the younger man. The pissing contests he would have had to endure, the inevitable moment when they would have come to blows with one another.

Rick’s fairly confident that neither man would have asked him to choose, pick between them in some emotional turbulent ultimatum, but eventually the reality might have gotten too hard. One of them would have fallen away, and if he’s being honest with himself – Denise would be so proud of him, because he is – it would have been Shane.

Not because Rick hadn’t loved him like a brother or would have shunned him in favor of a lover, but just because it would have made more sense. Shane had had Sara at the end, probably would have started a life with her, had kids of his own, maybe even bought a house. He’d have been busy, distracted with a kind of domesticity that would have been wholly unfamiliar to him. And it would have just tapered off, their time spent together. They still would have been close – nothing save death could have altered the bond they’d shared – but it would have been _less_.

Carl would have dealt with it worse than anyone. Might have rejected Daryl in the wake of spending less time with his godfather; viewed it as the younger man’s fault, though it wouldn’t have been. Then again, in this different world he’s imagining, the end of his and Lori’s relationship might have been a gateway to the beginning of her and Shane’s. Rick will never know the details of her affair, but the end of their marriage now seems to him inevitable. Had she not died the day she’d written that note, Rick knows that he wouldn’t have been able to get over what she’d done.

He’d have wanted to. Hell, he still wants to, and the peace that he’s found with it now is aided in large part by his inability to stay angry at a ghost. If she weren’t, though, if she’d lived, he might have forgiven her eventually, but he never would have moved past it.

That revelation is sudden and feels like a strike to the gut. He strikes back at the punching bag hard enough that a sharp, sudden jolt of pain rockets down his wrist.

“Shit,” he exclaims, pulling back and shaking his hand immediately. The pain doesn’t let up. “Shit, _fuck_.”

The tears in his eyes are a lot more than a manifestation of physical pain, he doesn’t need a shrink to tell him that. And as he stands there in a garage that technically isn’t his but feels more like home than any place has in over two years (maybe ever), gingerly unwrapping his hands and letting exhaustion slowly overtake every part of him, all he can think is that Daryl has to come back.

He’s not worried about this being the end of them; people fight, he knows that. Two stubborn guys like them, they’re bound to fight here and there. He can live with that, so long as Daryl comes back.

The sky outside is darkening, and with every fading ray of muted sunlight the knot in Rick’s gut twists just a little bit tighter.

And he knows it won’t loosen a bit until Daryl comes home.

***  
***

Rick’s still asleep when Daryl comes back the next morning. So are the kids and Carol. Because technically it’s not _morning_ so much as it’s still the middle of the night; but Daryl hadn’t been able to sleep at Hershel’s. It had been weird, too, because usually Hershel’s farm is one of the only places Daryl can nod off without feeling apprehensive in the least. But this time, the older man’s spare bedroom had seen him fitfully dodging a series of nightmares the likes of which he hasn’t experienced in years.

It had been unsettling, to say the least, and Daryl had eventually left right as Hershel was waking up to tend to the first of his early morning chores. The old man has people around to help him with those sorts of things, of course, but he still rises every day and does his part. A solid work ethic brought on in part by immense guilt, but it’s hardly Daryl’s place to judge him that.

Now that he’s home, though, he feels even more unsettled. He stays downstairs because he doesn’t want to risk a trek into his bedroom waking Rick. It’s stupid, and one of those instincts leftover from his life _before_ , but he hates waking people up. Even people he trusts. Even people he _loves_. There’s a bone-deep fear that accompanies rousing someone from sleep and Daryl can very rarely manage it, save with the children, even on good days. And today is not even close to a good day.

So instead he waits. Once the sun comes up he goes out back and spends a while tinkering around with the Jeep. It’s been a while since he’s worked on this particular vehicle for any extended amount of time – committed as he has been to Rick’s Charger – and he finds himself forgetting which spark plugs he’d replaced last time he’d gotten into it, and whether or not that alternator is the third or fourth one he’s installed.

Not being able to remember doesn’t irritate him the way he thinks it should, though. Instead he feels calm and resolute. He grabs a notebook out of one of the boxes of junk in the shed and starts jotting stuff down. He’s always been so reluctant, in the past, to keep notes on the cars and bikes he works on. Always insistent, even with himself, that he can remember. Today, however, he’s struck with the overwhelming realization that _no he can’t_. Not when he goes months without touching the thing. So he turns to a blank page and starts writing.

Things are changing.

Maybe even _he’s_ changing.

It’s anticlimactic, this revelation that he’s having. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe that even makes sense because if he’s being honest with himself he’s been changing for a long time now. Since Rick and maybe even before that, too. Since Carol and Sophia. Since Eric punched him in the face and he hadn’t run away.

Last night he’d told Hershel that he’d fucked everything up again. That Rick hated him now and once he got back things would be different, maybe even over. And Hershel had looked at him with those fond, sad, knowing eyes of his and said, _“You’re wrong, son. You didn’t break a thing.”_

And Daryl had believed him.

That’s a longstanding fault of his, though. Hershel’s the only person in his life that he’s always trusted, that he’s always forgiven, that had known him as a child and not hurt him; and because of that Daryl will always hold his opinion in higher regard than others.

So he’d gone home more at ease than he’d been when he’d left. He doesn’t know what will come of this, but if Hershel thinks things will work out then maybe they will. The old man’s been wrong before, of course, but he’s never lied.

***

He successfully avoids Rick for the next few hours, and it’s only a little bit on purpose. 

Sophia wakes up before everyone else and, after finding Daryl washing his hands in the kitchen, stands in the doorway staring at him for a long time – long enough that the mechanic is a little unsettled by it and eventually says, “Yes?” with a quirked eyebrow, praying that his absence hadn’t damaged her in some way.

Eventually she smiles at him, wipes some of the sleep out of her eyes, and asks him to make her pancakes. Daryl usually isn’t one for cooking, but even he can manage the just-add-water stuff they’ve got in the cabinet.

Carl wakes up not long after that, and before he knows it the bustle of the morning begins. Rick’s just shuffling downstairs as Daryl’s heading out to take the kids to school. Before he leaves, Carol declares that she’s going to spend some time with Michonne today; she says it so that both Rick and Daryl hear, and their eyes meet briefly because of course it’s an invitation. _Come back and talk to each other, be alone for a while, work it out_.

Daryl nods shortly in his lover’s direction and his heart pangs a little at the utter relief that settles over Rick’s features. He still tries to talk himself out of it, though. Back and forth all during the drive – Carl and Sophia attend different schools, so it’s a decent amount of driving, too – but in the end he knows he won’t chicken out.

Daryl’s a lot of things, not many of them good, but he’s sure as shit ain’t a coward.

Rick’s in the bedroom when he gets home. He’s stretched out on the fully made bed – a quirk of the older man’s, probably born from so many years being married – with one arm behind his head and the other holding a book open in front of him. _Lonesome Dove_ , Daryl can’t help but note. 

He doesn’t look up until the hunter clears his throat.

Rick visibly startles; dropping the book on his chest and sitting up quickly. “Shit. I didn’t hear you.”

Daryl nods at the statement and then again, with more intent, at the book. “You’re reading it.”

Rick smiles, if not a little unsteadily. “You told me I should.”

“You’re from Georgia, Charger.” Daryl grunts. “You gotta read at least one Western, and that’s the one.”

“I believe you.” Rick says, taking a moment to set the book in question on the bedside table and sit up a little more. “And I trust your opinion.”

Daryl stops for a moment and looks at Rick, really pays attention to the way his features are drawn tight with worry and how the bags under his eyes seem more pronounced than they have in weeks. “If we’re not talkin’ about the book anymore, ya gotta tell me.”

“We’re not talking about the book anymore.”

Daryl takes a deep breath and adjusts to the shift. “Okay.” He agrees. “Then I guess…” he trails off because he doesn’t even have a guess. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“Do what?” Rick asks, sounding honestly curious.

Daryl shrugs again. He feels like anything he says will be the wrong thing. And that the wrong thing will trigger an ending.

The silence stretches on between them until eventually Rick takes over. “Can you come in here? Sit down with me?”

It seems like a reasonable enough request, so Daryl complies. Rick smiles brightly at him, and the traces of uncomfortableness and fear that he can’t quite shake suddenly feel worth it.

“I’m sorry, Daryl.” The older man blurts, shaking his head briefly but keeping his gaze mostly fixed on him. “What happened last night…I was an asshole. I overreacted. And you were right.”

Daryl blinks a few times, confused. “Huh?”

“You were right.” Rick repeats. “I was so angry that Carl chose you that I didn’t even stop to think about why it happened. I was just jealous and scared. It wasn’t your fault.”

Daryl shrugs and ducks his gaze. “I shoulda called you. He’s your kid.”

“Yeah.” Rick nods. “But I haven’t been doing a very good job lately, being his father. I just…I don’t do well with things I can’t control. And ever since I shot Blake…I mean, stuff was getting better. Carl. Me. You and me being…this,” he gestures between them. “I thought everything was getting better.”

“But it’s not?” Daryl asks, because on the whole, before last night, he would have sworn that it was.

“Doesn’t feel like it anymore.” Rick’s jaw is clenched so tight that Daryl can see the strain of it.

Abruptly, Daryl speaks. “I think you’re wrong.”

Rick’s eyes widen. “I am?” Daryl nods. “About what?”

“It’s gettin’ better,” he says firmly. “Everything is. It just ain’t as easy as you’re used to.”

“I’m not used to things being _easy_.” Rick counters, sounding a little offended. A little can turn into a lot, if he’s not careful, but Daryl’s not in the mood to tread light.

“Yeah. You are.” He says it calm enough, but the words themselves are harsh no matter what the tone. “Last few years’ve been shit for you, Charger, I get that. You’ve had’ta deal with more unfair, tragic bullshit than anyone ever should, and you’re a strong sonnova bitch, for putting that boy first and doing what you had’ta do, to keep him goin’.”

“Thank you.” Rick says, but it sounds uncertain, nearly a question.

“But your life before all’a that?” Daryl shakes his head. “It ain’t your fault. Just the hand you got dealt. Easy.” He pauses again, tries to get his thoughts in order so his words will come out in a way that’ll get his point across but not hurt Rick in the process. “Kinda life where problems had _answers_. You could risk fuckin’ up ‘cause you always had someone in your corner if you needed ‘em. Your folks, your family, your wife, your…Shane.”

Rick cringes but says nothing. He looks thoughtful now.

“It feels like nothin’s alright no more ‘cause you ain’t got a safety net, or whatever the fuck your shrink would call it,” Daryl huffs a little. “but that don’t mean you’re fucking up.”

“But I do.”

“The hell’d I just say?” Daryl barks, a little annoyed that he’d just put so many thoughts into actual words and Rick apparently hadn’t listened to any of them.

“No, I mean,” Rick shakes his head. “I’ve got a safety net. I’ve got you.” He takes a deep breath, even as Daryl’s heart is stuttering in his chest. “You’re right. I’ve never been completely alone.”

“Well,” Daryl swallows thickly. “That’s the way it should be.”

“But it wasn’t always for you, right?” Rick goes on, sounding thoughtful. “You didn’t call me ‘cause you _are_ used to being alone. Handling stuff, whatever, by yourself.”

Daryl swallows thickly. “Yeah.”

Rick studies him for a while after that, head tilted to the side in that quizzical way that he has when he’s trying to figure something out. Daryl feels revealed, cut wide open and put on display, by the intensity of it. To make it stop, and just because he wants to, he leans forward and kisses the other man. It falls a little off center, landing on the side of Rick’s mouth, but it’s still enough to shift the atmosphere of the room.

Rick leans into him, lets Daryl support his weight as they continue their steady exploration of one another. Daryl’s hands run up and down the length of Rick’s back, dipping under his t-shirt to paw at the skin around his hips and stomach as their tongues take turns tracing each other's mouths. Daryl feels that familiar stirring in his gut, the pull in his groin as his cock declares its approval.

Daryl’s alternating dropping hard kisses and soft bites along the column of Rick’s throat when the other man pulls back abruptly, eyes blown wide with arousal but tinged with something else, something serious that doesn’t sit well at all with this moment.

Daryl’s shifting away even before Rick gasps out, “Wait, stop a second.”

“What’s wrong?” The mechanic rasps.

“Nothing,” Rick shakes his head, “Just…can I…there’s one thing I, I need to ask you.”

Daryl can’t help the jolt of apprehension he feels. Rick must see it, too, because he smiles softly and cups the side of Daryl’s cheek affectionately. “It’s nothing bad.” He assures. “It’s not even really a question, it’s just…”

“Spit it out, Charger.” Daryl encourages, eager to get whatever it is out in the open.

“From now on,” he starts in a low voice, dropping his gaze to the thin skin around Daryl’s wrist that he’s running his thumb over in slow, soothing circles. “If we fight… _when_ we fight, because we will…I need you to – can you come home?” Daryl’s eyes squint in confusion, and Rick glances up just long enough to see it. “I get why you left, and it wasn’t a bad call. But you were gone all night and I…”

He stops there, seemingly out of words.

Daryl’s first instinct is to rebel against the notion of anyone trying to control him. He can go where he wants, when he wants, and if Rick can’t deal with that then fuck him.

That’s just a first instinct, though, and he breathes through it with carefully controlled practice. Rick’s asking him for something right now, something important enough that he’s noticeably scared at being rejected. Once Daryl sees that – the fear – it doesn’t take him long to piece together the rest of it.

The day his wife had died she and Rick had fought. She’d left their house that afternoon and never come back. Rick had returned from work only to find his home empty, but had thought nothing of it because sometimes people leave when they’re upset. Usually they come back. They’re always supposed to come back.

Daryl takes a deep breath and wraps his hand around the side of Rick’s neck, pressing his thumb against the underside of his chin until the older man raises his head and their gazes lock.

“Okay.” He says simply.

Rick’s expression is openly surprised, and a little skeptical. “Okay?”

He nods once, as firm a declaration as he can manage in a tone too simple and calm to be argued with. “Okay.”

It takes a few seconds, but when Rick smiles at him it’s full of warmth and relief. Daryl’s sure, more so than he has been yet, that he would do anything for this man if asked.

***  
***

“Daryl, _please_ ,” Rick hears the register of his voice, the way his words come out like a whine, but he can't help it. Can't help anything at this point – not with Daryl's mouth buried between his legs, his lover's tongue dancing a melody around his clenching asshole.

He's already come once, less than fifteen minutes into what Rick has officially dubbed the best makeup sex of all time, _ever_ , with Daryl's hand down his pants while they made out on the bed like a couple of horny teenagers. Rick had bucked into the grip and spilled his release into his pants – all while Daryl had grinned wide and triumphant, like he'd planned it.

Now, somehow, Rick's stark naked on the bed while Daryl's still got his shirt and boxers on. Rick's a sweating, panting, begging mess and Daryl – every time he pulls his head up long enough for Rick to see – looks downright satisfied. Like someone had given him the homework assignment _make your lover fall apart as many times as you can_ and Daryl was a straight A student with Harvard aspirations.

“Mmm,” the younger man hums, using one of his hands to paw at Rick's ass. “You gettin' desperate, Charger?”

Rick had passed desperate about six exits ago, but all he can do it nod against the pillows. He reaches down and fists Daryl's shirt sleeve, tugs restlessly. “Do something.”

Daryl grins again, proud. “Whatever you want, sweetheart.” Then he dives back into Rick's ass. Only this time, within seconds, his tongue is breaching Rick's entrance and the detective – who's never before today experienced rimming as anything more than an elaborate fantasy brought on by too many hours watching porn – can't help the way he keens.

He keeps one hand on Daryl's shoulder while the other grips tight at the comforter. Without meaning to, he starts rolling his hips, thrusting into Daryl's mouth until his lover presses his palm firmly into his hipbone. And that by itself causes a sharp gasp followed by a low groan. Daryl knows too well by now how sensitive that particular part of his anatomy is, and Rick would bet the world that he'd chosen it as his point of leverage on purpose.

Rick's hard again now, has been for a while, and can't even begin to guess how long Daryl's been playing with him like this. His body's covered with a fine sheen of sweat and he knows what he must look like – hair a hot mess, sticking up in every direction, lips swollen from kissing, his chest and neck a road map of love bites, a few of which are bound to stick around for a few days – and he knows this not because he's in a position to see, but because he can _feel_ it. 

And hell, he can see it in a way, too. He sees it reflected in Daryl's eyes every time they rake over him; the unrestrained hunger is enough to have him blushing outright even though this is _Daryl_ , and they've been together so many times in so many ways that nothing should feel like a revelation anymore. Except it does.

“Here,” his lover grunts, a second after Rick feels empty air where the heat of Daryl's mouth had just been. Before his brain can catch up enough to be upset by the loss, Daryl's fingers are pushing their way past his lips, and Rick latches onto them without a trace of shame. He sucks messily on the digits, coating them in as much spit as he can because he has a pretty damn good idea where they'll be going in a second. And also because the way Daryl's eyes go dark as he watches Rick mimic the motions of a blowjob causes a heat-infused pride to swell mightily in his gut.

“Fuck, Rick,” Daryl breathes, and the lustful blaze becomes something hotter and more intense, because Daryl only calls him _Rick_ in their most important moments.

The detective shivers. Daryl pulls his fingers away despite the older man's moan, gently soothing his growing ache by dipping his head down low and running his tongue up the length of Rick's cock – from base to tip in one endless motion.

Rick's never considered himself much of a poet, but in that moment he's absolutely positive that he could write a book of sonnets solely dedicated to the marvels of Daryl Dixon's tongue.

Stretched as he is from his lover's ministrations, there's barely a sting when Daryl pushes two fingers into his ass. Rick's hips rise on their own to meet the very welcome intrusion and this time the younger man doesn't stop him. It takes less than a minute for Daryl to find his prostate and start rubbing it softly – too softly, by Rick's measure, and he works to make his lover press harder, firmer, _more_.

Daryl's attention is split now, though; as his fingers continue their dance inside of Rick, his mouth becomes preoccupied with the inside of his thigh, pushing the detective's leg up and out of the way until he has plenty of room to suck a hard bruise into the overly sensitive skin right below the crevice of his groin.

“Oh jesus christ,” Rick says loudly, tossing his head back and staring up at the ceiling, not seeing a single bit of it. “Your fucking _mouth_ Daryl, god. Fucking love it when you mark me like that, _christ_ , you have no idea. Fucking hard...harder, baby, please. _Please_.”

Daryl pulls back a little, taking his mouth away and making Rick whimper – a pathetic sound which he'll deny later – and Rick looks down just in time to see his lover's head tilt slightly to the side. “You've never said that before.” He reports, and Rick kind of wants to kick him because _who the fuck cares_ if he's never said it before? It's true and he wants _more_.

Somewhere farther back in his still functioning brain he knows that this moment is bigger for Daryl, that something might even be changing for his lover – some revelation being had right under his nose – but Rick is too desperate to help it along or even appreciate it. He conveys this to Daryl by running his fingers up the base of his skull and then making a tight fist in his hair, all but dragging the younger man back down to where he'd been before.

Daryl goes willingly, smiling softly and somehow profoundly at him right before his teeth clamp down tight on the flesh of his other thigh.

Rick shouts at the sensation – there's pain in there, but it's the very best kind – and his cock jerks noticeably. The motion of it must spark something in Daryl, because his lover chooses that moment to press against that sweet little bundle of nerves inside of him with renewed vigor.

Rick throws an arm over his eyes, hips still thrusting rhythmically, and hangs onto Daryl for the ride – which he knows now will be over way too soon.

“Gonna,” he gasps. His hand is still in Daryl's hair, holding on hard enough that it probably hurts. “Gonna, fuck, Daryl, _please_.”

He's not made to wait. With a final hard suck, Daryl pulls away from his inner thigh and moves his mouth instead to Rick's cock. He takes him in almost to the base in a single motion and Rick's _wrecked_.

The wonderful heat of Daryl's mouth around him, and the suddenly increased pressure on his prostate, has his whole body coiled tight as a bowstring about to snap. It only takes another three strokes of Daryl's mouth up and down his shaft to get him there – the delicious pain from the younger man's marks on his legs, the fading soreness around his nipples from where he'd played with them earlier, and the sheer vulnerability of being completely exposed to someone like he is...it's all conjoined beautifully with the radiating warmth of the absolute trust that he has in his lover. 

Together, the experience has him careening over the edge with such ferocity that he would be terrified by it, if he were in a position to feel anything at all except unmitigated ecstasy.

***  
***

Rick comes back from his orgasm slowly. Daryl watches as his breathing begins to even out and his eyes start to refocus, losing some of their lust-addled glaze. He's beautiful, Daryl can't help but think; perfect and pure and everything that Daryl himself isn't. He's never considered a lover that before: _beautiful_. Before Rick no one ever had been to him.

He scoots up on the bed until he's lying on his side facing the older man. He brushes his fingers through his lover's sweaty hair, pushing it away from his face and lingering over the stubble on his chin.

“What?” Rick asks, smiling softly when he turns towards the sensations with hooded, satisfied eyes.

Daryl purses his lips and shakes his head, making a little noise in the back of his throat because he doesn't feel like he has the right words to fit in this moment.

But Rick's inquisitive expression doesn't evaporate. “You're looking at me like you think I'm gonna disappear.”

Daryl's surprised by that. “I don't.” 

“Good.” Rick says, all serious now. “Because I'm not.”

_You can't promise that_ , an old demon whispers in his ear. He ignores it, choosing instead to lean forward and capture Rick's lips in a kiss. Everything else is quiet. 

Daryl moves against his lover until Rick's mouth opens invitingly. He dips his tongue in for a taste, thinking that no matter how many times they do this he'll never get sick of it, before his brain catches up and he pulls back aprubtly.

“What?” Rick asks, trying to follow the younger man and frowning deeply when he's denied.

The hunter is already moving to get off the bed. “Mouthwash,” he mutters in response, halfway to the bathroom before he hears Rick's amused chuckle.

“I don't mind.” The older man calls out, but Daryl ignores him.

He's in the bathroom less than two minutes, and comes back with a damp washcloth, which he uses to gently clean the already drying come off of Rick's stomach when he sits down next to him again. The detective props himself up a little, his gaze focusing on Daryl's still rock-hard, boxer-covered erection. He reaches out and palms the straining member. “Want me to take care of that?” He asks, an almost coy lilt in his tone.

Daryl moves his own hand to rest over Rick's, pressing down harder if only to relieve some of the ache there. He closes his eyes and swallows thickly. “Yeah.”

Rick licks his lips. “Whaddya want?”

“So fucking eager.” Daryl grins wickedly, loving this man in ways that words, even if he could get them to work right, wouldn't be able to fully express. “Wanna fuck you.”

Rick's eyes go tellingly dark. “Yeah.” He nods. “Yeah, we can do that.”

“And I'm gonna make you come again.” Daryl adds.

This time Rick's reaction is openly doubtful. “You got two outta me already today,” he says slowly. “I might be tapped.”

Daryl's not put off by his lover's doubts, though, and makes a small “pfft,” sound as he rolls his eyes. “Third time's the charm.”

“That implies that the first two tries were unsuccessful,” Rick points out, following Daryl's movements as he stretches himself out and finally removes the rest of his clothing. “Which they weren't. At all.”

Daryl huffs again and ignores him. He uses his fingers to trace over the already darkening spots of flesh on Rick's inner thigh, and smirks when his lover's breath catches noticeably. He presses down a little harder on the worst of them and licks his lips when the older man shivers. “Y'really do like that, huh?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Feels...it feels good.”

“Tell me.” Daryl presses, somewhere between demanding and hopeful.

Rick considers it for a while, watching as Daryl's hand stays resting on his leg, breath speeding up slightly every time he puts pressure on the bruised areas. “It hurts, but it's a good hurt,” he says eventually. “Like you're there even when you're not.”

“Never woulda taken you for likin' it rough.”

Rick blushes but doesn't shy away from Daryl's gaze. “Does that freak you out?”

“Do I seem freaked out?” Daryl quirks an eyebrow at the older man, purposely playful.

“No.” Rick admits. “But I don't want you to feel like...I mean, if it ever _did_...if it was too much, it's not something...it's not a deal breaker or anything, and I don't _need_...”

“Relax, sweetheart,” Daryl croons, reaching up with his free hand to grip the back of the older man's neck. “We can play.”

“Yeah?” Rick asks, sounding hopeful.

“Oh yeah.” Daryl nods, and bends forward to bring their lips together again. This time there's a distinct minty aftertaste, and Daryl doesn't pull away when Rick moves to deepen the kiss. He presses his thumb into one of Rick's hickeys hard, and his other hand snakes around his rib cage.

Rick spreads his legs as much as he's able, splaying himself open invitingly, and it's not long before Daryl's got him fully horizontal on the bed again. This time there's nothing separating them, and the slide of sweat-damp skin against sweat-damp skin, and the friction of their bare cocks sliding together have both men thoroughly enraptured with one another.

Rick cants his hips downwards, trying to get away from the sensation even as his nails rake over Daryl's biceps in an effort drag him closer. “S'too much,” he pants, pulling out of the kiss. “Can't,” but he bucks forward when Daryl makes a move to separate their bodies. “Stay.”

The mechanic chuckles a little at the blatantly mixed signals. “You want me to stop?”

“Yes,” Rick sighs, but then immediately shakes his head. “No.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out in a huff. “Fuck, Daryl, I don't know. I don't...”

“Hey, shh,” the mechanic soothes, still a little in awe at how quickly this man, his man, can go from pointing out the flaws in the way he'd used the phrase _third time's the charm_ to this wanton, writhing mess. Then again, Daryl's the one who had done this to him – torn him apart with pleasure and put him back together over and over again for hours now – and that awe he's feeling is tinged in large part with the pure testosterone-infused pride that comes with having a lover want you so completely.

And that's not even touching on how much Daryl wants Rick in return – his craving for the other man borders on actual physical pain and he thinks he understands now, in a way he's never been able to before, the lengths his brother had gone to in order to feed his addictions. Because right now if someone asked him to give up everything he owned for just a single moment inside of Rick Grimes, Daryl knows he'd fold without a fight.

“God, you have no idea,” Daryl can't help but mutter. His fingers have a mind of their own as they snake in-between Rick's legs again, pressing needily against his hole and dipping inside when he finds he still can without any resistance. The older man lets out something resembling a sob even as he spreads his legs wider. “Never wanna be anywhere else, Charger.”

“Daryl,” Rick whines, and the younger man smiles broadly because he fucking _loves_ hearing his name come out of his lover's mouth in that tone. “Can't. Please.”

Only now he really can't tell if Rick is begging for more or begging him to stop, so he pulls out of the other man and stays out, even when the panted, “c'mon, don't stop, please,” sounds like an invitation to return.

“Don't wanna hurt you,” he whispers, rolling onto his side and gently wiping some of the sweat off Rick's forehead. The older man's eyes are bright and glazed as he blinks slowly at him.

“Said you could fuck me.” He reminds him, nodding at nothing in particular. “Want you to.”

“Okay,” Daryl agrees, but still feels a little hesitant. “Wanna.” He swallows thickly. “But ya gotta stop me if it's too much, alright?”

“I will.” Rick nods. “Promise.”

Daryl believes him to an extent, but it also hadn't been more than five minutes ago that Rick had been telling him to stop and keep going in the same breath. The flood of sensations, coupled with the oversensitivity from back-to-back orgasms, has the older man pretty strung out. And as beautiful as it is to watch, Daryl never wants to cross that line.

“Need a safeword.” He decides then, the simplicity of the solution all but knocking him over.

The detective squints at him. “No I don't.”

“Rick,” Daryl growls, tightening his features into something serious. “Yes.” He takes a breath when him lover's eyes soften. “Please.”

The older man runs his thumb over the curve of Daryl's jawline. “And that'll make you feel better?”

Daryl considers it for a moment and then nods. “Like a safety net.”

Rick smiles gently at that, and Daryl knows he's going to win.

Rick drags him down into a kiss; half a dozen chaste pecks that have Daryl's dick twitching to get this show on the road.

Rick finally pulls away, settling back against the pillow – at ease with his vulnerability in a way that Daryl envies. “Cypress,” he says simply.

The hunter can't help his bewildered expression. “Cypress?” He repeats, openly confused.

“Our safeword.”

“I –”

“And it is _ours_ , Daryl.” Rick cuts him off, looking stern. “You've gotta use it too, if you need to.”

Daryl shuts his mouth and nods.

“Promise.” Rick demands.

“I promise, Charger,” he repeats dutifully, but the other man doesn't look sated.

“Use my name, Daryl.”

“Y'know, you made a pretty fast one-eighty on this,” the hunter points out, as he considers what it means that Rick's taking this so seriously all of a sudden.

“I like the idea of it.” He explains, shrugging a little against the mattress. “Something that'll always stop us, no matter what. Like an emergency brake.”

“Most emergency brakes don't work,” Daryl can't help sharing.

“That's not –”

“No one ever uses 'em, so they rust,” he goes on, explaining even though he knows Rick doesn't really care. “And then if you do ever haveta, they wind up snappin'. Or they come apart on their own and make your brakes grind.”

“Daryl,” Rick says plainly, and the younger man can read the exasperation there. He takes a deep breath and locks their gazes.

“I promise, Rick,” he says pointedly, resting his hand on the other man's chest, right over his heart; which speeds up ever so slightly at the use of his first name. Daryl will remember that, in the future – the effect that saying his real name seems to have. “I promise I'll use it if I need to. So long as you do, too.”

Rick's nod comes a lot easier. “I promise.”

“Good.” Daryl rolls back over, settling himself on top of Rick and slotting their hips together like they had been before. “So, where were we?”

Rick gasps when Daryl's hard, leaking dick brushes against his mostly-soft, still oversensitive one. “You were gonna fuck me.”

Daryl plants a few wet kisses along Rick's neck, stopping to suck hard at his protruding collarbone. “And?” He presses, smirking to himself when Rick's hand finds its way to his hair again and starts tugging restlessly.

“Gonna...” he groans openly, tilting his head back to give Daryl more room. “You were gonna make me come again.”

“You didn't think I could.” Daryl reminds him, teasingly nipping at the older man's earlobe as his fingers trace the outside of his hole.

“I take it back,” Rick chokes out, lifting his hips to try and encourage Daryl's wandering digits. “You can do anything you set your mind to.”

“Sound like a damn fortune cookie.” Daryl points out, mostly just talking as a way to distract Rick, hopefully keep him from getting overwhelmed again.

It's working, too, because his lover laughs outright. “You can do anything you set your mind to,” he repeats, and Daryl doesn't get it until he adds, “in bed.”

Then he laughs, too, because it’s funny and he's having fun. And if he hadn't already been sure before, he is now, without a doubt: he loves Rick Grimes so much that his heart aches with it.

It takes a long time for Rick to get hard again. Daryl's not surprised, as neither of them are exactly teenagers anymore, but he also doesn't mind. He'd decided right at the beginning of this that he was going to make Rick come as many times as he could today – make good on a promise he'd made their very first time together, desperate and wanting in Daryl's garage. Rick might not even remember those words now – strung out as he had been, he'd probably filed them away as simply dirty talk; foreplay. But Daryl doesn't say anything lightly, and he's been wanting to do this for months now.

He loves Rick desperate. Loves pulling him apart stitch by stitch until there's nothing left but longing. Paul used to call him a control freak in bed, and maybe he is; but Rick doesn't seem to mind. Rick, who openly admits to not being able to handle things very well if they're outside of his control, happily, eagerly even, hands the reigns over to Daryl whenever the younger man asks for them. Seems to long for it, even; these private moments between them when he's at Daryl's mercy completely.

“Should tie you up,” he whispers into his lover's ear at one point, much later. He's got three fingers pressing steadily inside of him now, stretching pragmatically at his walls and stopping every once in a while to rub at his prostrate. He'd pulled the lube out some time ago, so the slide in and out is easier now. Rick groans at his suggestion. “Get some of those ties of yours and make it so you can't touch yourself, even when you're dyin' for it. Maybe even wrap one 'round your cock. Think I can get ya to beg for it?”

“Already begging you,” Rick rasps, his eyes are shinning with unshed tears. “Please, c'mon. Wanna feel you inside of me.”

Those words make his heart pound and his dick pulse in the same steady rhyme. It's emotional as much as it is physical; Rick wanting him is everything.

“I gotchya,” he promises, soothing and sultry all at once. “Gonna split ya wide open and make you come all over yourself. Again.”

“Yes,” Rick hisses, nails raking so hard over Daryl's back that there'll be scratches there later. He knows how far gone the other man is just from that, because Rick's never clawed at him like that before, not over his back, where all his scars exist as a constant reminder of the life he used to have. Daryl doesn't mind the rougher treatment – enjoys it, in fact – but Rick's not the first lover he's had who's tended to shy away from leaving marks there.

That he's not avoiding the area the way he usually does is proof positive that he's fast approaching his limit with the teasing. Daryl takes the cue and pulls back, shushing the older man as he whines and tries to keep his hands on him. “Dare,” he croaks, “Want...”

“I know,” he promises, and grabs a condom off the bedside table. “I'm almost there.”

He rips the package open with his teeth and removes the rubber with embarrassingly shaky fingers.

“Let me,” Rick offers, moving to take the condom out of his hand.

“Nuh-uh,” Daryl insists, keeping a firm grip on it. When Rick frowns at him, Daryl dips to kiss him, lips landing a little off base and catching his cheek instead. Daryl repeats the movement as if he'd done it on purpose. “You touch me right now, Charger, an' this is gonna be over.”

Rick's frown morphs into a self-satisfied, nearly cocky grin. “S'what you get for teasin' me this long.”

Daryl glowers; it's fake, and Rick knows him well enough that he can tell that. To make his point instead, Daryl reaches down and pinches the inside of Rick's thigh hard. He hadn't looked to see where he was grabbing, but judging by Rick's reaction – a bitten off cry and the telltale jerk of his cock – Daryl's pretty sure he'd managed to land on one of the overly-sensitive bruises.

“Fuck,” he gasps, biting his lip until Daryl's thumb traces over it gently. “Fuck, Daryl, baby, love, darlin', honey muffin –”

“Honey muffin?” Daryl interrupts, very put out. “ _Honey muffin_?”

“I'll never say it again if you fuck me right now.” Rick offers, teasing and desperate and beautifully wrecked.

Daryl smirks as he runs a finger over his lover's puckered entrance, tracing over the hole as it tries to close down around nothing. “Sounds fair,” he agrees, and makes quick work of rolling the condom down his own aching member and then coating it with lube.

He has to stop and take a few deep breaths, as even that small amount of friction is enough to have him a hair's breath away from losing his shit.

He hates fighting with Rick – hates the fear and uncertainty of it and would be happy to go the rest of their lives never doing it again; but he knows them, knows that what Rick had said earlier is true – they _will_ fight, will bump heads and disagree, probably a lot. And he hates it, yes, but if this is what's going to happen every time after they make up – sex so intense that it should qualify as an Olympic sport – he's pretty sure he'll be able to deal with this particular reality of domesticity.

Hell, if he'd known it could be this good, he would have picked a fight ages ago.

When Daryl finally pushes inside of him, Rick cries out; every emotion he’s experienced in the past twenty-four hours bubbling to the surface in one steady swell. “It’s okay,” Daryl finds himself whispering, nails raking against his lover’s skull in a way he knows the other man finds extremely soothing. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

“I know,” Rick chokes out, locking their gazes as soon as Daryl is fully inside of him. “It will be, now.”

Daryl’s breath catches. “I…” but he can’t. Not in the middle of sex. Not right after they’d had a fight. “I ain’t gonna last long, Charger.” He says instead, shifting his weight so he can get his right hand free, drag it down between them and palm at Rick’s cock. “You close?”

Rick writhes under his touch, turning his head into the pillow even as he nods vigorously. “Fuck me,” he says, more demand than plea. “Hard as you can.”

Daryl pulls almost all the way out and thrusts in again with enough force that when the headboard hits the wall, the sound echoes; overshadowed only by Rick's sharp cry. 

Daryl lets the whole of his focus dwindle down to this moment; to Rick and the feel of him clenching down around his cock, that impossibly tight heat that's his, meant only for _him_ , ever, _for_ ever. Nothing else exists except for the two of them. 

God, it's almost like being high – this tunnel vision that he can't control or think or _breathe_ around – hell, it's _more_ than being high. A line of coke or a few painkillers might be able to fool someone who's never had the real thing, but Daryl can tell the difference now. And this is a supernova compared to a Light Bright. 

Rick's eyes are as deep and beautiful as the man behind them, and the beard that's been growing out across his chin is wonderfully coarse when Daryl rubs the backs of his fingers over it. The other man's mouth is open in a continuous pant, and when his own hands reach down, grab at Daryl's ass in an effort to pull him even deeper into his body with each powerful thrust, Daryl lets loose something that sounds so much like a growl that to call it anything less would be a lie.

He gets all of his weight on one of his elbows and uses the leverage to fist Rick's cock even harder, letting the motions of their bodies move it up in down. 

“C'mon, Charger,” he huffs in between thrusts. “Gotta come for me, sweetheart.” 

Rick looks up at him with those perfect blue eyes, knowing and filled with so much love that Daryl doesn't understand how he hasn't gone insane from it, or how he hasn't realized yet just how insane it is to hold all that emotion for a man like Daryl Dixon. 

“Kiss me.” Is Rick's response. 

Daryl does it without a second thought – without a first. As soon as his brain comprehends the request and who it had come from, Daryl's complying. 

Their lips meet like a clash a thunder and move together with the same rumbling force. 

Daryl rocks his hips just right to nudge hard at Rick's prostrate. In the same breath, he tugs the older man's bottom lip between his teeth and sucks hard. Then he lets go, dragging his teeth along the way, and kisses him again. Rick's hips jerk upwards once, twice, three times and then...

“Fuck, Daryl,” he shouts, back arching up and off the bed with the force of his orgasm. 

That's all it takes. Daryl's, who's been purposely paying his own body little attention over the past few hours, finally gives in. Rick tightening down around him sends him over the edge before he can even get another thrust in, making their orgasms damn near simultaneous.

Daryl shouts at the force of it – all that pent up want and need and _yesyesyes moremoremore_ consuming him until all there is – all there is, ever has been, and will be – is Rick. Rick Grimes around him and inside of him, part of him and all of him. Rick and his love. Rick and _their_ love. It's all the same now. Unity and perfection and bliss. 

Now, finally and forever, Daryl is home. 

***  
***


	30. Echoes of the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One time, multiple fandoms ago, I was reading this ridiculously long story; had been for hours, the way you’ll do, and it was like 3am, and I had school the next morning, but I just couldn’t stop. Then there was an author’s note at the beginning of one of the chapters saying, basically, **“If you’ve been binge-reading this and it’s three in the morning, pause right now, because this is the best stopping point you’ll get for quite some time”** and that was, hands down, the most useful author’s note I’ve ever read. So, this is me, over a decade later, extending the same courtesy. Because, seriously. If it’s 3am and you’ve been binge-reading this since you got home today and you have work, or school, or just can’t feel your face anymore, this is a really good point at which to stop and sleep. 
> 
>  
> 
> The next few chapters are going to dive into Daryl’s past, and with that will come some additional warnings, which I’ll post at the beginning of chapters. For now, this chapter came out longer than I’d intended and is mostly just a build up to stuff coming. The only warning I have is for **very non-PC descriptions of mental illness; ableism** . But even that, Daryl calls himself on.

***  
***

“God, Charger, you’re a fuckin’ packrat, ain’t ya?” Daryl huffs, just this side of playfully annoyed, from somewhere inside of Rick’s bedroom closet.

The detective grins to himself, rifling through a few boxes on the bed and only paying his partner moderate attention. “I’m not a nomad,” he counters, while picking through some old trinkets and wondering if they’re really worth keeping. “Sorry not all of us can pack all our worldly possessions in a rucksack and be good to go.” 

“You oughta be on one’a those self-help shows.” Daryl grumbles right back. “Y’know you got a _fedora_ in here? When the fuck did you ever even wear this thing?” 

“Halloween,” Rick counters. “You done judgin’, Kerouac?” 

“Hey, Kerouac had his issues, but the man could write a mean monologue when he was strung out.” 

Rick hums a little, “I always preferred Burroughs.” 

“Of course you did.” Daryl says, sneezing a moment later, no doubt from the accumulation of dust all around them. “All those repressed sexual desires.”

The older man tilts his head at something that might have been an art project of Carl’s at one point, though appears now to be…well, a little melted. “And he loved cats.” He adds; bantering with his lover is so second nature at this point that he can do it with half his focus. “I always wanted a cat.” 

“We could get a dog.” Daryl offers, right before there’s a muted thump from inside the closet. 

“How’s that a response to _I want a cat_?” He pauses. “You okay in there?” 

He turns around just as Daryl’s head pops out from around the corner of the closet. A second later something shiny and round lands at his feet. “Disco ball, Rick? Really?” 

The detective barks a laugh. “Carl’s gonna be thrilled that you found that.” 

“Carl’s worse than his daddy when it comes to keepin’ useless junk around.” Daryl gripes, and disappears again into the closet. “You seen his room lately? Carol ‘bout needed a bull dowser to get to his dirty clothes.” 

Rick sighs a little. “I’ll talk to him.” He promises, though he’s not sure how effective that conversation will be – Carl had indeed inherited from Rick a tendency to…well, he doesn’t want to call it hording, but he can’t deny the characteristics are similar. “Maybe it’s time to teach him how to do his own laundry anyway. He’s twelve now.” 

Carl’s birthday had been at the end of March, and they’d celebrated with a large party at the house – all of Carl’s friends from school, and even some of Sophia’s, had been there. Aaron and Eric, Maggie and Glenn, and Michonne and her sometimes-boyfriend Mike had all stopped by, also. Rick still thinks most of their motivation for attending had been a desire to see Daryl interact with that many children at once. Well, except Glenn. Glenn had come because he still hangs out with Carl sometimes, is friends with Rick, and would follow Maggie to the moon if she asked it of him. 

Rick can’t deny that watching Daryl that day had been pretty fun. Kids are naturally drawn to him – once they get over his initial gruffness – and Rick thinks it has everything to do with the way Daryl talks to them. Namely, not like they’re kids. And while a few parents had called them the day after to pretend-politely complain about the number of curse words their children had heard from the man, all in all it had been a wildly successful event. 

Carl had finally gotten a replacement cell phone, Sophia had barely hidden out in her room at all, Carol had spent time with Axel – a friend of Daryl’s that runs a junkyard the mechanic sometimes gets parts from, and who also happens to be more than a little infatuated with the older woman – and Daryl, despite his complaints and scowling, had finished out the day genuinely content. 

Along with being over the moon at his son’s happiness, Carl’s birthday holds a special place in Rick’s memories because of what had happened after the party had ended. 

_“Know we said this thing was just gonna be temporary,” Daryl begins that night, after the kids have gone to bed. Carol had opted to spend a few hours alone with Axel, and since she’s so often the keeper of the children, Daryl and Rick both had encouraged her taking some time for herself. “You and the boy livin’ here.” He clarifies, at Rick’s confusion._

_“We did,” the other man agrees, somewhat worried, because while he knows this conversation has been a long time coming, he’s not sure he wants to have it tonight, after such a good day._

_“But I’ve been thinkin’.” Daryl won’t look at him, is staring straight ahead with his hands clenched like he’s preparing for devastation. “You’re goin’ back to work soon. And we’re all happy here. Carol thinks it’s a good idea. The kids would be okay with it, I think.”_

_“Daryl?” Rick questions. Because while he’s pretty sure he knows where his lover is going with this, the younger man hasn’t yet gotten the words out._

_“I get if ya wanna move back to the apartment,” he says quickly. “You and Carl…if ya wanna stay by yourselves for a while longer. I get that. You’re still healin’. But the offer’s open. Always will be.”_

_“And what offer is that, exactly?” Rick can’t hide his grin, and he knows he’s teasing a little bit, but at the same time he also really wants to hear Daryl say it._

_The other man looks up then, sees his expression, and rolls his eyes fondly as most of the tension in his posture fades away. “Move in with me.” He’s smiling, too, now. “If you want.”_

_Rick closes the space between them in no time at all, his lips finding Daryl’s in a passionate, consuming kiss that he believes sums up all his feelings on the matter._

_Daryl still looks a little unsure when they finally break apart, though. “Is that a yes?”_

_Rick’s smiling is downright blinding, and he’s not even sorry about it. “That’s a yes.”_

“I didn’t learn how to use a washing machine ‘til I was seventeen.” Daryl’s saying now, in response to Rick’s suggestion that Carl learn how to do laundry. 

Rick takes a moment to pull himself out of his memories, and then processes what his lover had just told him. “Seventeen?” He repeats, openly confused, because what he knows about Daryl’s past doesn’t coincide with the notion of someone else taking care of him like that. 

Even without seeing him, the other man seems to read his thoughts. “My uncle bought us a washer and dryer once, when I was a kid. Had got some workman’s comp check and was always kissin’ my daddy’s ass like that. Old man used ‘em to make moonshine.” 

Rick cringes, because he’s seen a handful of moonshiners do that, in his time, and really should have guessed that Daryl’s father would be the sort. “Right.” He says stupidly. “Guess you can’t use ‘em for both.” 

“Nah,” Daryl agrees easily, probably shrugging. Then, without prompting, adds, “Did all the laundry in a stream by the house. Wasn’t bad. Got me outta there, at least.” And even though he sounds perfectly alright with the memory, Rick’s heart still aches a little bit. “Appreciated the hell outta it the first time I ever used ‘em for real. Lived with this crazy old lady, for a while, and she had the fanciest shit money could buy. I remember thinkin’ it was the greatest thing since weed.”

“Crazy old lady?” Rick questions, attention fully on his lover’s words now, the mess of junk on the bed long forgotten. 

“Yeah, after I got out of…after some shit happened, when I was a kid,” Daryl explains, and Rick wishes so much that he could see the other man, because that had been a slip, a big one, about a part of Daryl’s past that he still doesn’t know anything about. “I spent about a year in foster care. Six or seven months was with this…god, she was just a fucking whack job, man.” His ensuing laughter sounds incredibly fond despite his words; the deep chuckle that accompanies remembering someone who had meant a lot to you. “Guess that ain’t real PC, but I didn’t have any other way to think about it, back then. She wasn’t real bad or nothin’. Thought the government was out to get her, all kinds of conspiracy nut-bag shit; tinfoil hats, the whole nine. But she was nice enough. Kept me fed. Safe. Said I reminded her of her son.” 

Rick processes the information that Daryl had just given him slowly. It says a lot, that this is one of only a few times that he’s ever heard his partner talk about anything from his past with happy nostalgia, and it’s a story about living with a probably undiagnosed paranoid schizophrenic. 

“How’d someone like that get to be a foster parent?” Rick settles on asking, thinking if maybe he sticks to the logistics of the event, Daryl might keep talking about it. 

“Hell if I know, Charger,” he replies, and Rick hears the ruffling of paper from the other side of the closet wall. “She wasn’t like that all the time. Had good days. Weeks, even. Besides, it was Southern Mississippi. Guess they weren’t real picky ‘bout who they sent kids home with. She had money from an insurance payout and a big house. Was good enough for me.” 

_Southern Mississippi?_ Rick mouths the words to himself, more confused than he’s ever been about his partner’s past. 

Daryl had told him once that he’d gotten out of Georgia when he was sixteen because his father had “sent him away”. Rick had been jacked up on medication and in a psych ward at the time, and hadn’t been sure until right this moment that he hadn’t imagined that particular tidbit of information. 

“Took off right after I turned eighteen.” Daryl goes on, and Rick scrambles to keep up because while he doesn’t know what’s causing his lover to be so uncharacteristically open about his past right now, he’ll be damned if he’s going to miss a word of it. “Kept in touch with her. Could never go back to Mississippi, never will.” He pauses for a second, as if he wants Rick to really hear and absorb those particular words. “She died when I was twenty-three. Heart attack. Was the same year my brother…” 

But Rick already knows that story. Daryl’s brother had killed their father, and Daryl had been there to witness the whole thing. It was something that Daryl had felt responsible for, for many years. That’s something he and Rick will always have in common – ghosts and misplaced guilt. 

Right now, Rick just hums in response to Daryl’s words. He doesn’t know if there’s a right thing to say, to something like that. If there is, Rick sure as hell doesn’t know what it is. 

“Where’d you go?” He asks, wanting desperately to continue this conversation. “After Mississippi?”

“Texas,” Daryl grunts. “Merle knew a guy there, said he could get us work. Wasn’t the type’a work I was too keen on, though, so I took off after a couple weeks. Stayed in New Mexico for a while. Then Colorado, on this ranch in the middle of fucking nowhere. Told the guy who owned it that I knew my shit when it came to horses, and he believed me, stupid fuck.” But Daryl’s laughing again, in that fond sort of way that Rick’s never heard before today. “Wound up gettin’ thrown the second week I was there. Dude let me hole up in his house ‘til I healed up, though. Didn’t even charge me for it. Took three months. Ain’t never been so bored in all my life.” 

Rick laughs a little, finding it easy to picture his lover as an annoyed eighteen-year-old, forced by injury to stay still for months on end and griping to high heavens about it. 

“Met up with a guy I’d known before, after that.” Daryl continues. “Ended up following him East. Spent six months in New York City, then a few more in Cleveland, a couple in Hartford... shit, all over the damn place. Stayed with him ‘til I was twenty and he…Well, he wanted different things outta…whatever.” The other man pauses for a second, and then clears his throat. “Was just me after that. Went West for a while. Lived in a van by the beach. I miss the beach, sometimes.” 

“We could go.” Rick finds himself saying, because right now the impulse to make Daryl happy is overwhelming. “Take a vacation, maybe, once the kids are outta school. Florida somewhere. Or even California, if you wanna go back there.” 

“Would be damn expensive, doin’ that in the summer,” Daryl says, but then, after a few long seconds, “Maybe this fall.” 

“Yeah,” Rick agrees, the word coming out as a sigh. “This fall. We’ll plan it.” 

“That’s right, Charger,” Daryl says, with a playful lilt this time. “Always gotta make a plan, huh? Can’t never be spontaneous.” 

Rick adapts to the changed tone of the conversation, realizing that Daryl might be feeling out of sorts at having shared so much of his history. “Last time I was spontaneous we had sex in the woods and the kids almost caught us.” 

Daryl laughs at the memory. “Yeah, but only ‘cause you don’t know how to stay quiet.” 

“Hey, it wasn’t my fault you lost track of time.” Rick play-argues right back. “Whole point of foolin’ around outside was we didn’t haveta worry about anyone hearin’ us.” 

Daryl chuckles again, lowly this time. “Hey, I been meanin’ to ask you something.” And then, finally, Daryl moves out of the closet he’s been sitting in this whole time. It hadn’t escaped Rick’s notice that Daryl’s talkative streak might have been born from Rick not being able to see him during its duration, and it’s definitely something he’s going to remember – that his partner is more inclined towards sharing when he doesn’t have to look right at him. 

That doesn’t change the fact that seeing him now, for the first time in what feels like hours, but was in reality was probably only ten or fifteen minutes, makes Rick’s heart flutter. He knows, logically, that this is the same Daryl that had walked into his apartment with him this morning, but it feels different now, because Rick knows so much more than he had then. 

“Ask me what?” He prompts, when the moment of seeing him for the first time since spilling so much information about his past seems to have Daryl somewhat frozen. 

The younger man shakes his head a little and refocuses. He holds up Rick’s old Deputy Sherriff’s hat. “You really used to wear this every day?” 

Rick licks his lips at the sight of that hat in Daryl’s hands. And while it might have made sense for an icon from his own past like that to bring up negative feelings, his dick had immediately overpowered everything else, as a single thought had crossed his mind and gotten stuck there. 

“You should put that on.” And he can hear that his voice is lower than it had been only a second before. 

Daryl must, too, by the way his eyes go wide with surprise, and then narrow seductively. “Oh yeah?” He counters, fiddling with the well-worn brim. “And what would I get, for doin’ something like that?” 

Rick adjusts himself in his jeans, and though he hadn’t actually meant for that to be his answer, the way Daryl narrows in on the action tells him that he’d taken it as one. With one more interested eyebrow quirk, Daryl obediently lifts the hat and rests it on his head. 

Rick’s mouth goes dry at the picture he makes – sleeveless t-shirt, bulging muscles, wisps of sweat-humid hair poking out from underneath, and, of course, the hat itself. So impossibly out of place on his lover’s head, but also oh so very _hot_. 

“Jesus Christ, I wanna fuck you.” Rick says, deep and throaty, before his brain catches up enough to even try to filter the words. “Shit, Daryl, lemme fuck you.” 

The younger man looks a little taken aback, but that quickly melts into an expression of transparent desire. “Fuck yeah, Charger.” He growls, moaning when Rick surges forward and grabs him by the biceps, manhandling him aggressively towards the mattress. “Fuck me, sweetheart. Hard as you want.”

Rick does.

***

“You close?” Rick rasps, thrusting into Daryl again hard, making sure to aim for his prostrate and knowing that he’d nailed it when his lover tosses his head back with a groan. 

“Yeah,” the younger man pants. “So fucking close. Rick.” His name comes out as several syllables strung together, and the detective grins. 

Rick’s fully on top of him, holding his weight steady with his hands on either side of Daryl’s head. The hunter has a pillow under his hips that’s allowing Rick to thrust into him deeply, every time. 

It’s always a heady rush for him, to control their lovemaking like this. Rick enjoys being somewhat submissive in bed – a fact that Daryl had caught onto quick and greatly enjoys exploiting – and usually, even when Daryl bottoms, he does so with a dominating type of force. It’s just the way they are. They work so well together because they _fit_. More completely, at least for Rick, than anyone ever has before. 

The detective doesn’t know, for sure, if Daryl’s ever felt like this with anyone else. 

Rick’s not ignorant of the fact that the other man has had many one-time lovers before him. Daryl’s never really talked about that – though he was honest about his number of past partners when Rick had asked him, and hadn’t been offended when the detective had requested they both get tested, before they started doing anything sexual without a condom – but Carol and Maggie have both made comments to him about Daryl’s history with other men. 

_“He kept it away from the house after Sophie and I moved in,”_ Carol had told him one afternoon, when Rick had come home from a therapy session raw and full of self-doubt. How the conversation had drifted to Daryl’s past he doesn’t quite recall, but he’ll never forget her words. She’d said them so sincerely, and they hadn’t been a betrayal of Daryl’s trust at all, but rather an offer of comfort. Because she’s always been on their side, from day one. _“and he’d always be home in time to see her before she left for school, but most nights he went out. Looking for someone, something, that’d let him forget for a little while. You do more than that, Rick. You don’t make him forget. You make it okay for him to remember,”_

_“He was just looking for you,”_ Is what Maggie had said on the matter, the one time it had come up. Her words had been accompanied with a simple shrug. _“All those guys…he was just wandering around, waiting for you to show up.”_

Rick had decided, early into their relationship, that he was never going to begrudge Daryl his past. They’ve had ‘the talk’ – the ‘don’t fuck anyone else and I won’t either’ talk – and Daryl hadn’t even tried to protest. Even if this _isn’t_ the first time Daryl’s had a relationship like this, Rick has absolute faith in the strength of his lover’s devotion. 

And as time goes on and their partnership settles on a sturdy foundation of trust, the perimeters expand; they begin to explore with one another, to try things and test boundaries in a way that’s only possible when you’re with someone you love and trust wholly. 

Because right now Daryl is writhing and whining underneath him, clawing at his back, canting his hips to match each and every of Rick’s thrusts, and they’re both loving every damn second of it. 

“Fuck, Charger,” the mechanic gasps, getting one hand on the back of Rick’s neck and pulling him down for a desperate, dirty kiss. 

The sudden shift causes Rick to fall forward slightly, catching himself on his forearms. He huffs a laugh into the kiss, and then pulls away just enough to say, “Put the hat back on.” Then he ducks down and kisses his way up the younger man’s jaw, pausing to suck on his earlobe. 

Daryl groans lowly, in response to both Rick’s actions and his words. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” 

“Please.” He whispers sweetly, though deep down they both know it isn’t a request. 

Rick’s old hat had fallen off somewhere to the side a while back; Daryl reaches for it now and shifts a little so he can lift himself up enough to get it back on his head. In the process of doing that, he clenches down on Rick’s cock hard, and the older man gasps a little. 

In retaliation, and just because he feels like it, Rick pulls almost all the way out, smirking a little when Daryl’s eyes snap up and narrow on him with unconcealed annoyance, and then slams back into him with enough force that the bedframe knocks noisily against the wall. 

Daryl gasps and then groans. It doesn’t last long after that. The sight of his partner wearing that hat…god, he doesn’t know why, but it _gets_ to him. Colliding worlds or something, he doesn’t know. He’s too close to the edge right now to even care. 

He shifts his weight one last time so he can wrap his hand firmly around Daryl’s dick, pulling roughly on the dripping appendage over and over – three, five, eight times and then Daryl is gone. His body bows up with the force of it, and the hat is once again lost somewhere in the mess of the bed. Rick doesn’t care this time, though, because it doesn’t take him but another minute to come as well, cooing at Daryl as he pushes in and out the other man’s sensitive body, and then going taunt as his own orgasm floods out all of his senses. 

Rick collapses unceremoniously on top of his lover once he’s done, panting wildly into Daryl’s sweat-damp collar bone. His now soft cock slides out after some time, which Rick feels more in Daryl’s hiss and clenching thighs than his own body. “Sorry,” he breathes against his lover’s skin, even though it’s not really his fault. 

Daryl chuckles lightly and, after a few more seconds of labored breathing, lifts a hand and starts running his fingers through Rick’s hair. The older man immediately shifts into the touch and makes a noise, and he hadn’t even been aware that he’d been asking for something with that until Daryl’s fingers turn into nails, lightly scratching over his scalp, and Rick hums contentedly. “Love you,” he mutters. 

Like always, Daryl immediately tenses. This time, though, the younger man relaxes on his own quickly, and without Rick having to say a single word. 

Progress. Baby steps. All those tiny-huge moments that make life worth it. 

“Me, too.” His partner whispers, and Rick responds by placing a kiss right over his heart. 

“Y’know, maybe we should keep this place,” Rick says, a few minutes later, when his brain feels relatively functional again. “Could make it a sex apartment.” 

Daryl huffs a little. “I think Glenn’d get sick of that pretty quick, Charger.” 

“I don’t think Glenn can hear us having sex in here.” Rick counters, but then takes a moment to actually consider it. “I’ve never heard _him_ , anyway.”

“Was he gettin’ any ‘fore he hooked up with Maggie?” 

The fact that Rick has to think about it is answer enough. He takes a deep breath and rolls his eyes even though Daryl can’t see him and he doesn’t mean it anyway. “Fine. We won’t have a sex apartment.”

Daryl makes a noise like he’s pondering something, still doing that thing with his nails and Rick’s head that the detective loves so fucking much. “Could build us a sex cabin,” he says eventually, and Rick actually has to pause. Metaphorically, of course, because he’s not actually doing anything, but still. 

“You could?” 

“Built our house.” He feels Daryl nodding easily. “Could sure as shit build a cabin. What would we even need? A room big enough for a California King and a bathroom? Pssht. Could do that in a couple months, tops.”

“You built the house?” 

Daryl clears his throat. “Yeah.” Then he pauses and sighs, like what he’s about to say next is somehow a chore. “Well, some of it. _Most_ of it. I hired some people to do a few…yeah, most of it.” 

Rick chuckles a little, and doesn’t even get mad when Daryl uses his free hand to pinch the back of his thigh. “You wanna build us a sex cabin, I ain’t gonna stop you.” 

It takes a few seconds, but eventually Daryl laughs, too. 

***

Doctor Denise thinks the move is a good idea. Rick’s not sure he would have changed his mind, even if she hadn’t, because while she’s been amazing with him ever since the incident with Blake, and Rick feels more stable than he has in years because of the steady therapy sessions with her, he also feels _this_ so deep in his bones that even if she had discouraged it, he would have known that she was wrong. But Rick’s gut and Denise’s insight had been on the same page, so it had all worked out. 

Even Carl, who’s been seeing a shrink of his own – twice a month, as compared to his father’s once a week – hadn’t objected to the idea. 

_“He probably would have regressed,”_ Denise had said, a couple sessions after the decision had been made, _“if you’d moved him back to the apartment.”_

_“It’s not too much change?”_ Rick had wanted the reassurance, despite his own overwhelming certainty that he was doing the right thing. Sometimes he needs other people to tell him what he already knows. 

Pack mentality, Denise calls it. _“The best leaders tend to seek reassurance and guidance from the people they trust. You’re strong, Rick, but you’re not an island. You shouldn’t be. You’re better in a group.”_

_“It’s a lot of change,”_ she had said that day, about Carl and the move, _“but I think, as long as this remains permanent, it’s only going to help. Your son is a lot like you, from what I’ve seen and what you’ve told me. He’ll thrive with more people around him, more family to depend on.”_

The move takes a long time, because they don’t bother rushing it. Carl and Rick are already settled into Daryl’s house, for the most part, and the process of going back and forth from the apartment to gather the last of their things gets stretched out over several late evenings and weekends. 

Maggie and Glenn volunteer to take Carl and Sophia by themselves a few times, which turns the mundane chore into something fun and adventure-like for the kids, while also allowing them time to bond. 

Rick remembers thinking, when this whole thing with Daryl and their children had just begun, that Carl’s crush on Sophia would eventually mimic Rick’s own history with Lori. With the changes that are happening now, however, the kids’ relationship had fizzled from its initial pre-romantic potential, and settled instead comfortably in the sphere of sibling fondness. 

Rick had hated growing up an only child, and had always longed for a brother; he’d clung so hard to Shane when they were kids for that exact reason. He’s always wanted to give Carl that, a bigger family than he himself had known. He’d assumed that possibility had died with his wife, and had mourned it at the same time. Then Daryl had come along and brought his hopes back to life. Daryl’s got a way of doing that, for Rick; changing his whole world for the better. 

***

“I think that’s the last of it.” Daryl declares, one bright and sunny afternoon in mid-April, standing in a sea of unpacked boxes scattered about their living room. He glances at Rick, hopeful and tired. “Is that the last of it?”

Rick exhales long and slow, letting over a year’s worth of tension and sadness fade into the air around him. “Yeah.” He nods once, meeting his lover’s eyes and smiling. “That’s everything.” 

***

It’s not a big deal when he finally goes back to work. 

Abraham and Morgan greet him as if he were returning from a long weekend, rather than months of mandated psych leave, and Rick appreciates their low-key acceptance more than they’ll probably ever know. He’s back a few months prior to the six months he’s required to be in therapy, but Dr. Denise had briefed the captain, and given Rick the all clear to get back to his job. They’re both keeping a close eye on him – he’s been told as much more than once – but he can handle that. 

None of the other detectives question him about his time away, though a few eye him hard enough that Rick can tell their silence is an order being followed, rather than genuine easy acceptance. Whether that decree had been issued by Ford, Morgan, or the captain himself he’s not sure, but he appreciates it all the same. 

During their first call together after he gets back, riding shotgun to Abraham, Rick decides to be honest with the other man. “We moved in together.” He blurts without any leadup. Maybe it’s spending all his time with Daryl, or a byproduct of therapy, but Rick’s more prone these days to getting right at the heart of a matter. “Daryl and I did. If you want to say something to me about that, I’d rather you do it now. Get it out of the way.” 

Abraham looks at him out of the corner of his eye, half his attention still on the road. “That your idea, or his?” 

Rick’s used to it by now, the protectiveness that Ford feels towards the younger man, and has accepted that it will always be a part of their lives. And while he’s okay now, with not understanding why it exists, he also can’t help but notice the subtle shifts. Daryl’s not as aggressive towards Abraham, as he had been when Rick had first met him, and he likes to think that maybe he’s had something to do with that. 

That maybe Rick has calmed Daryl, in some ways – good ways, that the younger man doesn’t resent – and that that’s bled into Daryl’s other relationships. Or maybe it’s just because Ford had saved his life, that day with Blake, and whatever scorecard the two men have between them had balanced slightly in Abraham’s favor because of it. Either way, it’s a noticeable and refreshing change; the ease of tension in Daryl’s interactions with the man.

“His.” Rick answers honestly. 

Abraham hums. “So it’s gonna stick, then? The two of you?” 

Rick doesn’t even realize he’s grinning until he catches his reflection in the side-view mirror. The ease of his expression makes him look young. “Yeah.” He breathes, finding it so easy to do that now without any pain. “It’s gonna stick. ‘Til the end of the world.”

“Alright, alright,” Abraham gruffs, sounding put out. “Save the sappy shit for your domestic life, Grimes.” 

But he doesn’t say anything else, and Rick knows that’s as close to a blessing as he’s going to get from this man. 

***  
***

When Daryl was eight years old, he and Merle had woken up early one morning so his brother could take him hunting. Right before they’d left the house Daryl had stopped cold by the backdoor, struck by a sudden and overwhelming impulse to do something, and so certain – in the way only children can be – that if he didn’t do it right then, he’d never get the chance to again. 

He’d ignored his brother’s protests and run back into the house, straight to their mother’s bedroom. 

Daryl had kissed her sleeping forehead and whispered, _“goodbye,”_ for no reason at all, because she’d still been passed out cold from the night before and hadn’t even been aware of her son’s quiet and tender farewell. He’d told Merle, too, as soon as he’d gotten back to the door where his brother had been waiting for him; _“Say goodbye. You have to go say goodbye.”_ He hadn’t budged from the house until the older boy had relented, though it had been with an eyeroll and obvious annoyance. 

Two days later the house had gone up in flames, and taken her with it. 

Neither brother had spoken of Daryl’s mildly-prophetic forced goodbye for many, many years. 

When they finally had, it had been in the immediate aftermath of Merle murdering their father. 

_“Never said thank you,”_ Merle had gasped, breaths coming out short and harsh around the blood loss. Daryl had shushed him, because he’d wanted Merle to live, and everything else had seemed categorically unimportant. Merle had disagreed. _“For making me say goodbye to ma,”_ he’d rasped, holding Daryl’s gaze steadily, refusing to let go for even a moment. _“Don’t even know if you remember it. Were so young, little brother. Changed the world, though. Changed me.”_

Daryl hadn’t understood or cared at the time. Later, he’d thought about how Merle had joined the army not long after the fire. He’ll always wonder what his brother might have done instead, if he’d been denied that final moment with their mom. 

Against all odds, Merle had survived the day Will Dixon hadn’t. Daryl still remembers it as one of the worst days of his life, because he’d been so sure his brother wouldn’t; that losing the one person in the world he hated the most would cost him the only true family he’d had left.

But Merle’s a stubborn sonnova bitch. _“Ain’t nobody can kill a Dixon ‘cept a Dixon.”_ He’d said in response to Daryl’s relief, a few days later at the hospital – Daryl slunk in the shadows of his room even though he wasn’t supposed to be. 

_“Yeah,”_ Daryl’s laugh had been watery around the edges, but Merle had ignored it. For the first time in their lives, Merle had ignored weakness. _“That’s why I was worried, asshole.”_

Merle changed the expression later, saying instead, _“No one can kill Merle but Merle,”_ but Daryl knows what he really means by that; Daryl’s never going to hurt Merle. Just like Merle’s never going to hurt Daryl. Their daddy’s dead now, and they’re the only Dixons left standing. No one can kill the two of them, except the two of them. It had taken a long while, but eventually Daryl had grown used to feeling that kind of safety. 

It’s different, than the sort of safety he feels now with Rick. 

He knows it would end poorly, but a part of him longs to tell his brother about the man he’s settled down with. The man he fully intends on sharing the rest of his life with. Someday he’ll have to, he thinks. Because Merle won’t be in prison forever, and eventually he’ll show up at Daryl’s front door, all wide grins and greedy hands, and demand this or that from the youngest Dixon. And Daryl will let him in, give him all he asks for and more, because that’s what family does. Merle will meet Rick that day, whenever it comes, because Rick’s family now, too, and the two of them will hate each other. 

Or, at least, Merle will hate Rick. 

It’s not about the gay thing – Merle’s known about that for years, and while he doesn’t love it, and definitely hates talking about it, he ignores it the best he can for Daryl’s sake. In fact, if Rick weren’t a cop, Daryl thinks there might even be a chance that his brother would take to him eventually. 

But Rick _is_ a cop. 

And to Merle, that’s the second worst thing a person can be. The first being a child abuser. 

Eventually Daryl will have to tell Rick all of this. Warn his lover that sooner or later his brother will be a part of their lives. Fifteen years, is the sentence Merle had gotten for killing their father. He hadn’t been charged with first-degree murder. Daryl doesn’t remember a lot about the trial, but the testimony from Ford had helped a lot, along with his own, and what he does recall is that the lawyers had batted around the phrases _self-defense_ and _childhood trauma_ quite a lot. And somehow, after all of the talking and arguing was done, a judge had handed down the final ruling of fifteen years, and it’s been nearly ten already. 

Merle can’t find out about Rick before that. Because Daryl hadn’t been lying to Carol on Christmas morning, when he’d told her that his brother would probably go on some over dramatic murder rampage if he found out sooner. Daryl wants his brother back, for better or worse, and though he’s not sure Merle will ever be able to stay out of prison for good, he’d like at least a few weeks with him where they can talk without armed guards hovering around them. 

He’s not even sure why he’s thinking about it so hard, these moments from his past and how they might lead into his future. He’s usually not one for introspection, but something about having Rick living with him now, the two of them and the kids and Carol firmly established in this weird little family unit, has got him nostalgic and hopeful. Probably why he’d told Rick about Mrs. Reed the other day, and his life immediately following his release from The…the place in Mississippi. 

Something deep in his gut is telling him it’s more than that, though. Some primal part of him – the bit that’s always honed sharp, listening for danger while he’s hunting, or prepared for the next blow while he’s fighting – is screaming at him that something’s about to happen. Something’s about to change dramatically, and he better get ready for it. 

He doesn’t believe in fate or karma or even God – any religious inclinations he might have had once upon a time were stomped out of him years ago – but he does trust himself. His gut and his instincts. That’s why, when the world shifts on its axis all over again, Daryl’s not even that surprised. 

It feels just like that morning with his mother, all those years ago. Not as strong, because he’s not eight-years-old anymore, but the core is still the same. 

His whole world is about to go up in flames. 

*** 

A while back, Daryl had finally conceded to Dale and had Rick’s Charger towed to his house. Their house, now. He’s close to having the aging beauty up and running again, but it’s been months, and most of what he’s doing now is waiting for the right parts to become available. Daryl has to admit that it really had just been wasting space, in the shop, and Rick seems to like having it nearby, anyway. Daryl has found his lover out here more than once, sitting in the driver’s seat or running gentle hands along the hood. 

_“Just miss it,”_ he’d sighed once, when Daryl had asked. It had renewed the mechanic’s determination to see the thing fixed once and for all. 

Daryl’s in the backyard fiddling away with it one afternoon on his day off when he gets the first text. 

He considers ignoring it, when he sees Abraham’s name flash across the screen, but since Rick is back at work now, that message could be about him. Ford, after all, very rarely texts him. 

_Can’t believe this asshole has your number_

Daryl squints at the screen, doublechecking the number attached to the name twice, because what the hell? 

The next message beeps through less than a minute later. 

_Are you srsly in Georgia again? Thought you were smarter then that D_

Daryl’s stomach drops out from under him. He texts back with shaky fingers. _Where are you?_

It takes a full eleven and a half minutes to get a response. Daryl’s breathing gets shallow as his heart beats too fast in his chest, waiting for a response. 

_Ploice station with your buddy ford. Come on down. We’re talkin about you_

Daryl barely remembers getting on the bike. He doesn’t go inside to tell Carol that he’s leaving and only puts the helmet on out of habit. 

This is it, he thinks numbly. This is the end. 

The curtain he’s been hiding behind is finally about to get ripped away and Rick will see him, fully and irreversibly see him, for the broken shattered mess that he’s been since he was sixteen years old. 

And he doesn’t know what will be left of them, once that happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the longest time, I was debating about whether or not I should split this whole story in two. Make the next big part of it a sequel, instead of continuing on with this one story. Ultimately, as you can now tell, I decided against that. In part because I think the next few bits are going to play out faster than I'd initially imagined they would. Not entirely sure yet on that, since I'm not even close to done writing them yet, but the feeling I'm getting from my muse is that we're nearing a wrap up. I use the term "nearing" very lightly, as I'm probably still ten or fifteen (twenty?) chapters away from an actual ending, but I can see it now, which is new. So someday, someday in the vast and distant future, this story will actually end. Maybe. I'm like ninety-eight percent sure on that. 
> 
> Thoughts, as always, make my day.


	31. Heat Lightening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Here’s to hopin’ 2017 isn’t the festering pile of rancid garbage that 2016, on the whole, totally was. 
> 
> Warnings in this chapter for **graphic descriptions of child abuse**.

***  
***

The call comes in while Rick’s out of the car, standing in line at some food truck picking up lunch for him and Ford. His partner is tense when Rick shuts the passenger door behind him, and the younger man eyes him up and down as a spark of déjà vu rushes through his veins.

_Linden county requests local assistance._

Rick doesn’t know what’s got him remembering that day, but he shakes it off quickly. 

“What?” He asks instead, setting Ford’s hotdog on the dash. “We got a call?” 

“Drunk and disorderly at Mick’s Pub.” The redhead grunts. “Gonna swing by the station first, drop you off.” 

Rick frowns hard. “What? Why?” He’s been back on the job for a while now, and Abraham hasn’t once tried to coddle him like this. “No.”

“Not about you, Grimes.” The other man barks. “This one’s personal.”

Rick is surprised, because now that he’s looking for it, Abraham seems _shaken_ by something. It’s the first time he’s ever seen his partner anything less than stoic, confident, or pissed. “All the more reason for me to come with you.” Rick declares, mind well and truly made up. “I ain’t leavin’ you alone, especially if your head’s not in the game. Don’t argue with me, man. Gonna have to shoot me to get me outta this car.” 

Ford turns on him them, face a mask of pure fury for a solid couple seconds. Rick just stares him down, though. Between all his years on the job with Shane and his relationship with Daryl, he’s not easily scared by expressions of misplaced anger. Ford sees that, too, and relents fairly quickly. “Fine.” He sighs, starting the engine and pulling away from the curb. He flicks on the lights but doesn’t bother with the sirens. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

***

The fight’s already over by the time they arrive at the pub. Local PD has restrained all the parties involved and are busy taking statements when Rick and Abraham push through the front doors. One of the officers sees them immediately, and walks over with a weary expression. They flash their badges out of habit and protocol. 

“I’m Officer Williams,” the large man that had moved to greet them says. “Responded to this call about twenty minutes ago. All suspects are detained and have been read their rights. Owner’s planning on pressing charges against those two,” he gestures towards the meanest looking men of the bunch, cuffed now and being led to a squad car outside by a female officer. “Apparently they’re regulars here, always making trouble.” 

“Okay,” Rick agrees, scanning the bar to take everything in. There are tables overturned and broken bottles on the ground. Light blood splatter on one of the walls that had probably come from a punch, rather than a weapon. “Any firearms drawn?” 

“Negative.” Officer Williams shakes his head. “Found a few small-caliber pistols in Dawson’s vehicle, doubt they’re registered. He’ll get a few years for unlawful carrying, and assault, hopefully.” 

“Good.” Rick says, and chances a glance at Ford, who seems very preoccupied by the group of men still cuffed and being questioned, a little ways away from them. “I’m sorry,” he shakes his head, “I don’t understand why you called us.” 

Officer Williams sighs deeply and turns slightly, gesturing towards the collection of criminals and then glancing back at Ford. “He asked for you by name. Don’t know the story, but I figured I’d extend the courtesy, in case you want to keep his name out of it.” 

Rick studies the faces of every single man in the group. Seven of them in all, and not a single one looks familiar to him. Then again, Abraham had said this call was personal for _him_. Rick wonders if one of these men is a brother, a relative, a friend, or a former comrade. Whatever the case may be, he knows he’ll back his partner’s play, no matter what it ends up being. 

“What was the extent of his involvement?” Ford asks, voice rough and catching slightly, after a few long moments of silence. “In this altercation?” 

“Far as we can tell he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Officer Williams shrugs. “He threw some punches when the brawl started. Said he’s the fightin’ sort, and couldn’t help himself. He’s been upfront. Claims he’s just passing through from out of town and has a New Mexico ID to back it up.” 

Rick perks up at the other officer’s words. _The fightin’ sort_ is a phrase Daryl often uses about himself, and while the words aren’t horribly distinctive, they aren’t the most common, either. 

If Ford notices Rick’s curiosity, he doesn’t comment on it. Just looks at Williams and sighs deeply. “We’ll take him, if you don’t mind.” 

The local officer shrugs again. “Little less paperwork, as far as I’m concerned. Just make sure he stays out of trouble if he sticks around? Won’t be able to give him a second pass, something like this happens again.” 

“I hear ya.” Ford shakes Officer Williams’ hand in gratitude, and then makes his way slowly to the group of men. Rick follows him, almost itching to see which of them Abraham knows. 

Rick hangs back half a pace, an illusion of privacy, but doesn’t even try to stop himself from staring as his partner approaches a muscular, stocky Hispanic man at the very end of the row. 

“Martinez.” The name rolls off Abraham’s tongue like something familiar and unwanted. 

Finally, the other man looks up, catches Ford’s eye, and smiles – a grin, more like, one that’s all flashing teeth and cocky overtones. “Well, well,” he chuckles, and something about the greeting makes Ford flinch, though he quickly squares his shoulders and stands almost at attention. “Abraham Ford. S’been one helluva long time, ain’t it?” 

Abraham doesn’t respond, but that doesn’t appear to bother the criminal. Martinez, Rick supposes his name is. The two of them seem stuck there, sizing each other up and remembering their obviously shared history behind glinting and reserved eyes, respectively. 

When Rick can’t take the extended silence any longer, he asks, “Are we gonna take him back to the station?” 

Ford grunts and doesn’t look at him. Instead, he addresses Martinez. “Where are you staying?” 

Martinez clucks. “Didn’t really plan this trip too well, Abe,” he admits, though he doesn’t sound the least bit bothered by it. “But I thought, while I’m in town, I’d look up Daryl.” 

Abraham says, “Don’t do that.” at the same moment Rick blurts, “Daryl Dixon?” 

Martinez responds to Rick, looking in his direction for the first time. “You know him?” And before he can answer, “You and Dixon get along so well these days that he knows your partner?” only that’s to Abraham, and sounds as close to dangerous as Rick’s heard from him yet. 

“We’ve kept in touch.” Ford says shortly, such a blatant downplaying of their relationship that Rick’s curiosity grows even as a seed of nervousness blossoms inside him. 

Martinez chuckles. “Gonna kick his pasty white ass for that,” and while it doesn’t sound like a real threat – more like something a good friend might say to another, casual ribbing – Rick’s defenses still heckle. He bites down his reaction, though, because he doesn’t know who this man is or what he’s capable of. And if he’s the backwoods country sort that doesn’t take well to homosexuality, the last thing Rick wants to do is paint a target on his lover’s back. 

“How about we head back to the station,” Ford says, sounding the same way he does when he’s trying to reason with victims or scared witnesses, and that throws Rick even more, because this man is clearly neither. “I’ll get you a cab and a hotel room. Some money, if you need it.” 

It’s a generous offer that’s without doubt against protocol, but Martinez just shakes his head. “Got money.” He says easily, then amends, “I’ll get money, anyway. And I ain’t interested in a hotel room.” 

“Whatever money you’re gonna ask Daryl for, I’ll give you.” Ford says, and Rick can’t help that his gaze darts between the two men, watching this play out with intense, and personal, interest. “But I’m gonna ask that you don’t contact him while you’re here.”

“Why?” Martinez asks, the simple question coming out supremely loaded. 

“Man’s got a family now.” Ford says, and though the statement is honest enough, he pointedly doesn’t so much as glance at Rick. “A kid. It would be…in his best interest, to not have his world upturned by your presence.” 

Ford’s words come out nearly clinical, a nervous tendency that Rick’s seen a few times over the course of their working relationship. He’s heard Daryl comment on it before, too. The accusation, _“you sound like Eugene,”_ tipping fondly from his lover’s tongue; one of the only things Rick’s ever heard Daryl say to Ford in a purely kind manner. 

“A kid, huh?” Martinez seems startled by that revelation, and Rick wonders how long it’s been, since Daryl has seen or even talked to this man. Whoever he is, Daryl’s never mentioned him to Rick before. He’s reminded then that there are still a lot of things that he doesn’t know about his lover’s past. “How’d he manage to get one’a those?” 

Ford doesn’t answer, and Rick can’t tell if Martinez’s surprise is because he knows of Daryl’s sexual orientation, or something else. 

“Okay.” Martinez shrugs, apparently giving up at Ford’s lack of response. “Let’s head back to the station, then. Can write one’a them reports you’re so damn fond of.” 

Abraham cringes again, and Rick doesn’t understand why. 

The Hispanic man stumbles slightly, when Officer Williams comes by and undoes his cuffs, catching himself on Ford’s shoulder and then patting his side, almost fondly, when he rights himself. “Had a few drinks too many.” He declares, but now that he’s standing and Rick can face him at eye-level, he can see that Martinez is almost definitely under the influence of something stronger than alcohol. “Ain’t gonna hold that against me, are ya, Officer Friendly?” 

And there it is again, a phrase that Rick recognizes from his lover’s vocabulary. It rattles him so much that once they’re all in the car – Martinez in the back like a prisoner, though uncuffed – he can’t stop himself from asking, “How long have you known Daryl Dixon?” 

Ford shoots him a sharp look from the driver’s seat, but Martinez just chuckles, and even over his shoulder and out of the corner of his eye, Rick can read the fondness in the other man’s expression. “Our whole damn lives, pretty much,” he responds. “Haven’t talked to the guy since I was eighteen, though. Couldn’t, after his old man sent him away.”

Rick’s breathing goes shallow, at the casual refence to an event in Daryl’s past that his lover still looks haunted by, whenever it comes up between them. Very rarely, as it happens, and usually only by accident, on Daryl’s part. An event that Rick still doesn’t know anything about, beyond that _sent away_ was to Mississippi, and was done at his father’s hands. 

“Where you workin’ these days, Caesar?” Ford interrupts, dropping what must be the man’s first name in an obvious attempt to shift his attention. He does the same thing with Daryl sometimes. In fact, he’s heard Ford refer to Rick’s lover by his first name more in the past ten minutes than he has in the previous history of their relationship. 

“Here and there.” The other man responds to Ford’s question casually. “Got a gig cleanin’ up piss and shit at a middle school in Las Cruces. Pay’s decent. Kids are assholes, but whaddya gonna do, right?” 

“That’s pretty close to the border.” Abraham says, and maybe his words were supposed to be casual, but they come out anything but. 

“You accusin’ me of runnin’ drugs, Officer Shit Dick?” He settles back slightly after he spits the words, shaking his head. “Sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t sound it. “S’what Daryl’an me used to call you. He came up with it. Not that clever, but what’a’ya expect from a fourteen-year-old? Dixon always was a sassy little shit.” He pauses. “He still like that?” 

“Been some sixteen years since you’ve seen the man.” Ford responds, as even-toned as if he were on trial. “A lot’s changed.” 

“Seventeen years.” Martinez corrects. “Had a birthday a few months back, didn’t he?” It’s more a challenge than a question, and Rick can’t stop himself from responding.

“He did?” It occurs to him for the first time that he doesn’t actually know when Daryl’s birthday is. 

His own is next month, and Daryl’s already started asking him what he wants to do, when the time comes. They’d celebrated Carl’s in March. Carol’s had been a few weeks back, at the beginning of April; they’d had a big dinner with family and a few close friends. Daryl and Rick had chipped in to buy her a gift certificate to a local spa, and she and Maggie and Michonne had made a girl’s weekend of it, while Daryl and Rick, Glenn, and Michonne’s mostly-on-again-these-days boyfriend Mike had helped out at Greene Light Tavern. 

It had been a fun weekend that had allowed the four men some good old fashioned male bonding time. Rick had found that he and Mike have similar political views, and Glenn had spent a ridiculously long time teaching Daryl how to play video games, only to regret it a few hours later when a slightly-tipsy Daryl had kicked his ass at some one-on-one fighting game that Glenn’s apparently been honing his skills at for years. 

It makes Rick sad, to think that he’d ignored his lover’s birthday, as unintentional as the oversight had been. Also, he’s a little angry, because Daryl should have told him, and he hates that this strung-out man in the backseat of their car knows more about his lover than Rick does. 

“Ooh, he sounds upset.” Martinez laughs loudly, and kicks at the back of Rick’s seat, making the other man turn and glare. “Sorry, _Detective_ ,” he adds, title dripping with sarcastic respect. “You got a thing for Ford’s buddy? Wouldn’t blame ya, if ya did. Man’s got a fine ass. Or, he did. Seventeen years an’ all, who knows now.” 

Rick’s blood boils at how casually he says those words. Logically, he knows that Martinez is taunting him, and that he should just ignore it, stay professional. But _professional_ had gone out the window the moment Ford had tried to keep him from this interaction. “You best watch your mouth.” He growls. 

“Grimes.” Abraham warns, hands tightening so hard on the steering wheel that his knuckles go white. “He’s just trying to get a rise out of you.”

“More than trying.” Martinez laughs again. “This is somethin’ else, Dixon having cops wrapped around his finger. He bendin’ over for either of you?” 

Rick snaps. In one fluid motion, he turns in his seat, gets a hand fisted tight in the front of Martinez’s shirt and pulls, hard. It’s satisfying, to see the flash of fear play across the younger man’s features. “What’d I just say ‘bout you and that mouth, huh?” 

The car lurches suddenly to a stop; Abraham’s got the thing in park, and is reaching to extract Martinez from Rick’s steadfast grip before he even realizes that they’ve made it back to the precinct. “C’mon, man,” his partner mutters lowly, hand around his wrist and tugging none too gently. “Ain’t worth it, Grimes. Just let him go.” 

Eventually Rick does, though it’s not without a lot of effort. He keeps his eyes sharp and narrowed in Martinez’s direction as the three of them walk into the station. 

It’s the middle of the afternoon still, and mostly the bullpen is empty, save a few receptionists and detectives doing paperwork. No one’s near enough to Abraham’s desk to pay them any mind, once they get there. Rick shoves Martinez into the chair next to it, and debates cuffing him just for the hell of it. 

“What are we gonna do with him?” He turns to his partner instead, hands on his hips because he’s still angry. “I don’t want him near Daryl.” 

Martinez, wisely, doesn’t comment on the ferocity of Rick’s tone. 

“I’ll keep him away, I promise.” Ford says, and it calms him a little bit, hearing that. 

Martinez, it seems, has a wholly different take on the matter. Suddenly, and for the first time since they’d found him cuffed and bloody at the pub, he looks angry. “Oh ain’t that somethin’,” he says darkly, eyes focused on the redheaded man now. “Abraham Ford swearin’ to serve and protect the likes of Daryl fuckin’ Dixon. What is that, Officer Shit Dick? Guilt?” 

Rick turns at the words, because Martinez is right. It’s always been about guilt between Abraham and Daryl. 

“Don’t.” Is Ford’s only rebuttal, and it’s said low and pleading. Martinez ignores him. 

“See, Detective Grimes. That’s your name, right? Grimes?” He’s addressing Rick now, who nods absently at the question. “Me’an Daryl Dixon? We go way back. Our brothers fucked around together, back in the day. Drugs and ‘shine, that sorta shit. Knocked off a couple stores, robbed a few houses, had a nice little drug ring goin’, with a few local guys, for a while. Wasn’t a gang, exactly, but you probably know how that shit happens in small, hick towns, right?” 

“Yeah.” Rick breathes. And he knows he should get this man to stop, that this is Daryl’s story to tell when he’s ready and not Rick’s to steal from this random stranger. Only he’s not random, and he’s not a stranger – not to Daryl and Ford, anyway – and as much as he wants to, he can’t bring himself to stop Martinez. 

“And me and Daryl, we just got dragged along. Clicked with each other ‘cause we had that in common. Fucked up older brothers and lives we hated.” Martinez shrugs. “Didn’t take me long to figure out that Daryl’s old man was a nasty piece’a shit.” 

“Stop.” The word comes from Abraham, and Rick is glad for it. 

“No.” The other man says, clear and easy. “I think your partner deserves to know what kinda cop you actually are.” 

Rick glances at Abraham then, and is taken aback by the amount of pure devastation on the older man’s face. He looks, honestly, like the entire world is about to end, and Rick feels his gut swoop out from under him at seeing that. It’s too late now, he realizes, to stop whatever is about to happen. 

Ford settles after that, reluctantly; sits down at the chair behind his desk and stares hard at the wood. Rick can’t help but think that he’s bracing himself for punishment. One that he clearly believes he deserves, as he doesn’t try again to stop Martinez from talking. 

“Daryl and me got along in a lotta ways, if ya know what I mean, Grimes.” The younger man continues with a leer, stealing Rick’s attention back and holding it firmly. “I was two years older, so we didn’t take up with each other _like that_ for a while. I waited, ‘cause I _cared_ about him.” He says this to Ford, pointedly. The redhead doesn’t respond. 

“Everyone knew about the Dixons.” Martinez continues. “Knew their daddy was an abusive, mean sonnova bitch. Daryl’s brother…he wasn’t around much, after their ma died. When he did come by, after the army kicked him out and he was just bouncin’ around, Daryl’d all but beg me not to say anything about it. I saw the bruises, even back then. The limping. The days he’d cut outta school ‘cause he was too hurt. But Daryl, he didn’t want his brother to know about it, how bad it had gotten. And it’d gotten pretty damn bad. I always wanted to kill the guy, but I was just a kid. Didn’t know what to do.” 

Rick’s heart aches, at the picture Martinez is painting. None of it’s a surprise to him, as he’s seen the scars, and Daryl has told him what his father had been like. But it still hurts, hearing it like this from someone else. 

“So, this one night, when Daryl’s fourteen,” Martinez’s voice shifts slightly, and his gaze goes distant, like he’s not seeing anything around him at all anymore. “He comes by my house. It’s somethin’ like two in the morning. My mom worked nights, and my daddy wasn’t around, so maybe he chose me ‘cause he knew I’d be alone. Maybe it’s ‘cause he trusted me. I dunno. But I opened the door and I couldn’t…shit. Kid was so fuckin’ pale. Thought his brother had gotten himself killed, for a second. That was my first thought. That it was grief. Didn’t know nothin’ else could make someone as pale as that.” He pauses. “Turns out, blood loss’ll do it, too.” 

Rick inhales sharply, and balls his hands into fists at his side. 

Martinez sees that, and shoots him a look that’s almost tender. “Thought he was gonna die that night. Really did.” He swallows thickly, goes back to seeing nothing, except probably the past playing out in his mind’s eye. “Begged him to go to the hospital. Said I didn’t know what to do, for him. His back was…it was in fuckin’ ribbons. More blood than skin. And I still remember it. The way my mattress got covered with it. Soaked. Way it felt, under my hands. Like a wet sponge, almost. Still wake up at night sometimes feelin’ that.” 

“Jesus Christ.” Rick whispers, and he doesn’t mean to, but he just can’t help it. He runs his hands over those scars almost every day, and he has to remind himself of that right now, remind himself that Daryl had _lived_ , because he’s so lost in Martinez’s depiction of the past that he almost feels like he could forget. 

“Yeah.” The other man laughs shallowly in response to Rick’s exclamation. Then he shakes his head a little, as if trying to clear it. “Anyway. After Daryl spent a few nights with me, healed up enough to start walkin’ around, I begged him to go to the cops. Man, and I really did, I fuckin’ _begged_ him.” He takes a moment to swallow thickly. “But he didn’t want to. Couldn’t blame him, really. Cops in that town all pretty much knew. Couldn’t do a damn thing about it, or wouldn’t, ‘cause’a who the Dixons were. And ‘cause if there was one thing daddy Dixon taught his boys, it was how to lie real fucking good.” 

Rick knows he’s already dead, but if there were a way to bring Daryl’s father back from the grave and kill him all over again, Rick would do anything in the world to be allowed the chance to go at the man with his bare hands. 

“But I kept at him. For days.” Martinez sniffs, and rubs a hand over his face as if he’s been crying, though his eyes are dry. “Eventually, I told him about this rookie cop that just got sent to town. Doesn’t know anything about the Dixons, I told him. Won’t judge ya ‘cause your daddy’s a piece of shit and your brother’s an asshole. Tell him, I said, and he’ll do something. He’s gotta. See, this cop had come by the high school a few weeks before. Part of some outreach somethin’ or another. Gave a big long speech about upholding the law and justice. Figured, if there’s any cop worth a damn, it’ll be that one.” He tilts his head, and eyes Rick pointedly. “And can you guess who that cop was?” 

Rick looks at Ford then, sharply. His partner is still staring resolutely at his desk. 

“Yeah.” Martinez agrees, though Rick hadn’t actually said anything. “Took three days, but eventually I convinced Daryl to go to this new cop and spill his fuckin’ guts about what his daddy’d done to him. What he _was_ doin’, all the damn time. ‘Cause I don’t think there was a day I knew Daryl that he wasn’t hurt in some way, by that asshole.”

“He told you?” Rick’s voice sounds harsh to his own ears. His words are directed at Abraham. “He told you about his father?” 

Ford looks up then, finally. There are tears in his eyes. “Yes.” 

“And guess fucking what?” Martinez cuts in, forcing Rick’s attention back to him. “The sonnova bitch didn’t do a goddamn thing about it. Didn’t believe him. Didn’t care.” 

Rick’s stomach drops out from under him. He doesn’t know which man to look at. “Why?” He says it to both of them, and it’s pleading. He’s having a hard time remembering that this is all in the past. It feels like Lori and Shane’s voices in his head all over again, only these ghosts belong to Daryl, and aren’t ghosts at all. 

“Guess the Dixon stories got to him faster than I’d’a thought. Or maybe he’s just that bad of a cop.” Martinez shakes his head, and it’s only then that Rick hears the other man’s guilt. “Daryl told me, later. What he said. How Officer Shit Dick drove him right home to his daddy, bitchin’ up a storm about kids making up stories. ‘Be better than the rest of them’, that’s what Ford told him that day. Was a goddamn stupid thing to say, ‘cause Daryl always was. Was better. Than his bother or his old man. Than any of us, really. I never got on him after that, to go to the cops. How could I? Tried and failed. Lesson fucking learned.”

“You,” Rick turns to Ford, trying to catch his breath and failing. “You did that to him? You _sent him home_ to that?” He doesn’t recognize the pitch of his own voice. But something about it must resonate with Abraham, because he looks scared. Rick’s moving closer before he can stop himself. He’s not sure if he’s going to punch Abraham or shoot him. He wants to do both. 

“Easy, Charger.” 

The low voice causes all of them to snap their heads up in surprise. 

Rick realizes three things at once. One is, this is the first time he’s ever seen Daryl at the station, and he looks wholly out of place and supremely uncomfortable here. The second is, he’d been ready to cause Abraham Ford significant bodily damage in the wake of the story he’d just heard, but he won’t now, because it wouldn’t be fair to make Daryl watch more violence happen because of him. And lastly, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever meet Daryl’s brother, but he knows now that the two of them have one very significant thing in common: they’re willing to kill to keep Daryl safe. 

“Daryl,” Martinez sighs heavily at the younger man’s presence, face relaxing into something fond and familiar. “How ya been?” 

Daryl walks closer to the group. He stops next to Rick and settles a hand on his hip. Martinez zeros in on it immediately. “Well, that explains why this guy got all up and arms, tryin’ to defend your honor, earlier.” He looks jealous, Rick can’t help but notice that. Daryl says nothing. “What the fuck are you doin’ back in Georgia, D?”

“What are you?” He snaps at the man. Rick notices then that Daryl’s all but vibrating, shaking ever so minutely. Which might be a combination of seeing this man again after so many years and just the simple act of being inside the precinct. Daryl had told him once, at the beginning of their relationship, that he’d probably never visit Rick at work. _“Like seein’ ya, Charger, but I ain’t too fond of police stations.”_ That he’s here right now is significant. 

“Ran into Willy a few months back.” Martinez is answering Daryl’s question. “He told me you were runnin’ some car shop in Atlanta. Had to see it for myself.” He shrugs then. “I’m just passin’ through, though. Ain’t gotta get on my dick about it. ‘Less ya wanna.” 

Rick growls low in the back of his throat. He feels like a walking raw nerve ending, from all the emotions he’s been subjected to in the past half hour. Daryl’s fingers flex in place on his hip, and that manages to calm him down some. 

“You’re high as fuck.” Daryl says to Martinez, sounding more disappointed than angry. “Only talk in monologues when you get like this.” 

Rick wants to know how much Daryl had overheard of Martinez’s speech, and if he’s angry at Rick for listening to it. What comes out of his mouth instead is, “How’d you know he was here?” 

Daryl snorts a little, face still a mask of tired frustration. “He swiped Ford’s phone. Sent me a couple texts.” 

At that, Abraham finally reanimates. He pats his pockets and looks disbelievingly at Martinez when he comes up empty. The criminal in question just grins wickedly and pulls the missing phone seemingly out of nowhere, tossing it in front of the man with a small smirk. “Best pickpocket in the state.” He declares. “Hell, I taught Daryl everything he knows.” 

Rick looks at his lover just in time to see him cringe. “I don’t do that anymore.” 

“Nah, I guess you don’t.” Martinez studies him carefully. “Was just tellin’ these guys, you always were the best of us.” 

“Just fucking stop.” He sounds so impossibly exhausted that Rick aches for him. 

“Your old man’s not around anymore, right?” Martinez asks instead, making Daryl close his eyes and sigh deeply. “You wouldn’t be anywhere near this state, if he were. He in prison or dead?” 

“Dead.” Daryl bites. “You wanna be, too?” There’s no real danger in his words, just frustration, and the other man responds without batting an eye at the death threat. 

“Nah, you didn’t kill him.” Martinez gives him a long onceover that makes Rick bristle. “But…Hell, did _Merle_?” 

Rick’s startled that he’d guessed that so easily. He doesn’t know what it speaks to more – Merle Dixon’s personality or the extent of their father’s cruelty. 

“Ohp,” Martinez points at Rick. “Your boyfriend’s face says I’m right.” He pauses for a moment before smiling widely. “Fuck, man. I mean I know that sucks, him bein’ locked up and all, but fucking good for him.” 

“How’s Felix?” Daryl snaps abruptly, and Martinez’s face closes off noticeably. 

“Same as always.” The other man clears his throat. “What happened to you, D? After that night? After Mississippi? Heard all kinds of shit about you, for a while. That you blew that place up. That you took off. Ran from the law like some ol’ fashioned Billy the Kid.” 

“I be standin’ in a goddamn police station if that were true?” Daryl grumbles, but Rick sees the flush creeping up the back of his neck. 

“So?” Martinez just keeps looking at him. “What happened? You wind up runnin’ away, like you wanted us to?” 

Rick feels something cold grip him, at the thought of Daryl running away with this man. And hell, his lover must feel it in him, because he flexes his fingers over Rick’s hip again, trying to sooth him. “I was sixteen fucking years old, an’ thought I was gonna die. S’only reason I ever said that.” 

“Shit, D, I ain’t spent seventeen fuckin’ years pinin’ after you, if that’s what you’re getting at.” Martinez snorts. “And I don’t regret it for one second, neither, not takin’ off with you that night.” 

“Why the fuck not?” Daryl almost yells the words, something old and painful ripping suddenly to the surface and trying like hell to suffocate him. “Woulda been so much better off. You were just a fucking coward.” 

“Your daddy woulda hunted us down and slaughtered us both.” Martinez responds, just as seriously, and with just as much decade-and-a-half old pain. “I did the only thing I could to keep us both alive.” 

“You ran away.” Daryl breathes, more hurt in those three words than Rick thinks he’s ever heard from the other man. 

“No.” Martinez counters. “I got run outta town. There’s a big damn difference.” 

“That wasn’t my fault.” Daryl tells him, but the words come out choked. Rick raises one of his hands and rests it on Daryl’s lower back then, rubbing in soft, relaxing circles, hoping to ground the younger man somewhat. 

Rick doesn’t know anymore, what the two of them are discussing. Except that it’s about that thing in Mississippi that Daryl never talks about. But that doesn’t matter. Nothing matters right now, except the pain that his lover is in. It’s too much, and Rick will do anything he can to ease it. 

“I never for one goddamn second thought that it was, D.” Martinez looks at him like he’s a little insane. “Hell, I’ve always felt guilty, that I didn’t come after you. That I didn’t even try. Felt like…like a lotta that was on me.” 

“Wasn’t.” Daryl mutters. With a short sigh, he juts his chin towards Abraham, silent and frozen again at his desk, listening to all of this with maybe only slightly more comprehension than Rick’s got. “He helped.”

“That why you forgave him?” 

“S’complicated.” Daryl tells him. Then he takes a few deep breaths and looks up at the ceiling, briefly. “Man, I gotta get outta here.” Martinez opens his mouth to respond to that, but Daryl promptly cuts him off. “That wasn’t a damn invitation. They got cots and shit around here. Right?” He looks briefly in Rick’s direction for confirmation, who can only nod dumbly in response. “Just sleep it off, man. Whatever you’re on. You wanna come talk to me sober, Ford’ll set it up. But I can’t…fuck, I can’t do this anymore.” 

Martinez doesn’t try to stop him as he leaves, just stares forlornly after him. 

Rick, on the other hand, _does_ get to follow, because _he’s_ Daryl’s partner now. 

His lover heads for one of the doors that leads to an alley on the side of the building. Rick gives him a minute before trailing behind him, figuring Daryl will need some time to catch his breath, but also not wanting to wait too long, in case the other man decides to bolt. 

Abraham stands from his desk on obviously shaky legs, eyeing Martinez – who’s now slumped slightly in the chair, resting his head on his palm and looking about ready to crash. 

“Set him up in one of the sleepers, I guess.” Rick says, not knowing what else to do and deciding to just go with Daryl’s idea. “Don’t tell him where we live, if he still wants to talk to Daryl in the morning. Just call me and I’ll let you know what he wants to do.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” Abraham clears his throat, sounding more unsure than Rick’s ever heard him but not nearly as upset as he deserves to be. “Grimes –” He starts after a moment, but the younger detective is quick to cut him off. 

“ _Don’t_.” He growls. “Don’t even fucking look at me right now, Ford.”

Abraham doesn’t try to push back against Rick’s anger.

***

Daryl is pacing and smoking, when Rick joins him in the otherwise deserted alley on the side of precinct building. He must keep the cigarettes in one of the side saddles of the motorcycle, Rick realizes absently, because he’s never seen them in the house and knows Daryl doesn’t smoke often enough to justify carrying around a pack. 

“I can’t believe him.” Rick starts, his own nervous energy getting the better of him. He’s so overwhelmed that he barely registers it when Daryl startles at the sound of his voice. “I always thought there must be a good reason, why you’ve always hated Ford so much. I knew there had to be, but I didn’t think…I mean, I never woulda thought…Hell, Daryl. You should more than hate him for what he did to you. I want to kill him.” 

His lover makes a small noise that Rick can’t identify. “He’s made his amends.” 

“Like fuck.” Rick snarls. “Nothing _mends_ something like that. I hate him for this, Daryl, I do. I’m gonna ask for a new partner. Hell, I’m gonna get the bastard fired.” 

“Charger,” and the way Daryl says the nickname, throaty and desperate, finally pulls Rick out of his own crushing anger. 

He sees it then, with startling clarity; the way the cigarette between Daryl’s fingers is shaking, the way his lover’s eyes are wide but unfocused. Suddenly he feels overwhelmingly selfish. 

“Hey, hey,” he breathes, making sure all the hate and anger are gone from his tone. “Daryl. It’s okay.” 

The mechanic shakes his head, sniffs once, and then abruptly sits down on the stairs leading up to the side door that Rick had just come through. He draws his legs up close to his chest, and sucks desperately on the almost-finished cigarette. “It ain’t.” 

Rick cautiously approaches the younger man, sitting down next to him on the narrow stair, letting his own feet rest on the ground. It breaks his heart a little, when Daryl flinches at Rick’s hand on his leg. 

Daryl tosses the cigarette away then, and wraps his arms around his stomach. 

“Tell me what you’re feeling right now.” He tries, and it’s a line straight from his therapist, sure, but it’s also what he wants to know. What he has to, to even try and help with this. 

“What I’m feelin’?” Daryl croaks, laughing like nothing’s funny at all. “Feelin’ like I never wanted you to know any’a that. Or see…see how fucked up…how fucked up…”

“Daryl,” Rick breathes, turning so he’s facing the man more completely. He moves to get a hand on the side of his face, and doesn’t let go until his lover meets his gaze. The depth of aguish he sees there nearly destroys him. “None of that matters, darlin’, none of it.”

“It does.” Daryl argues. He’s so close to crying that Rick’s eyes well up, too, just from watching him try to fight it. He’s always known that Daryl has some issues when it comes to his own self-worth, but the younger man has gotten so far past them – and long before Rick had shown up in his life – that the detective doesn’t always remember that they’re there. He’s reminded brutally now, that Daryl had grown up thinking he and his family were nothing but trash. 

“No. It doesn’t.” He says, running his thumb over Daryl’s cheekbone and smiling a little, softly and to himself, when the younger man turns into the touch. “I don’t care about anything that Martinez just told me, Daryl.” He pauses for a moment to consider his own words. “Well, I do. But only in that I wanna kill Ford now. And that has nothing to do with you.” 

Daryl chuckles a little and then closes his eyes, ducks closer to Rick even though they’re outside and the younger man usually can’t stand public displays of affection, even when, like now, there’s no one else around. “Really did make his amends.” The mechanic says again, softer this time and like he truly means it. “Never told ya what happened in Mississippi. Why my old man sent me there.” 

“And you don’t have to.” Rick says, almost immediately. “Not until you’re ready. Not ever, if you don’t wanna. I don’t care. Not about any of that. Only want you to be happy, Daryl. And _safe_.” 

The younger man nods a few times against his palm, and then finally reaches out, runs both his hands through Rick’s hair, studies him intently for a few long seconds, and then surges forward, presses their lips together half a dozen times in a row, hard and fast. 

When he finally pulls back, Rick is out of breath and smiling. Suddenly it seems absurd to him that he’d been jealous of Martinez, if only for a second. That drug-addled man inside, he hasn’t known Daryl for seventeen years, doesn’t know this Daryl, _his_ Daryl, at all. What he and Rick have is theirs, just theirs, and no one will ever come between that. 

Rick gets a hand on the back of Daryl’s neck, all tangled up in his hair, and tugs slightly, sensing what the other man needs next. Daryl follows his lead almost immediately, ducking his head into Rick’s shoulder and burying it there, his face firmly pressed against the detective’s neck. Rick wraps his other arm around Daryl’s shoulders, and his lover dissolves into the embrace. 

The tears that fall against the sensitive skin of his neck burn like acid. “Oh, baby,” he breathes, and tries to remember if he’s ever seen Daryl cry before. He tightens his hold around the other man, tugging him as close as physically possible. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay.” 

He knows a part of what Daryl’s grieving right now is his past – this stark reminder of it obviously striking several chords – but also what Rick reads in him is the buildup and release of tension brought on by fear. As if, from the moment Daryl had gotten Martinez’s texts – and probably for a long time before that, too – he’s been terrified that Rick would reject him because of the life he used to have. 

Rick’s always thought that Daryl’s tendency to keep his history guarded was based in a desire to not remember it; that he hates talking about it because he hates thinking about it. But now Rick can see – Daryl thinks about this stuff every damn day. His father, his brother, his time travelling, whatever the hell had happened to him in Mississippi; these are things never far from his mind or his actions. His silence has always been a defense. Against a deep-rooted fear of rejection. 

“You’re mine, Daryl,” Rick whispers now, following his own thoughts to their natural conclusion. “And I’m yours. Always. No matter what. Your past doesn’t matter. I swear it doesn’t.” 

Daryl sniffs a little and wraps his arms tighter around Rick’s shoulders, pulling him closer. The older man reads that as a plea to keep going. 

“You remember when I lost my mind, after I finally read Lori’s letter?” Rick keeps his voice soothing and low. They’re buried in each other now, close enough that Rick barely has to speak louder than the wind for Daryl to hear it. “I thought I was gonna lose you, after that. Thought, no one should have to deal with that much stuff, in a relationship. Especially not a new one. Hell, from that night at the bar. In the bathroom when I was screaming at ghosts in the mirror. I thought I was gonna drive you away, and I wouldn’t have blamed you, if you’d gone.” 

Daryl doesn’t speak, but he fists the back of Rick’s suit jacket hard in one of his hands, and presses his palm forcefully against Rick’s shoulder, with the other. 

Rick smiles, and pulls back just enough to kiss the shell of Daryl’s ear, before continuing. “You never did, though. Was like you made up your mind to see me though all of that shit. Hell, Daryl, when I woke up in the hospital and you’d snuck into my room? I never… I never thought I’d get anything like that. Not from anyone.” He takes a shaky breath, but it feels so good, finally getting to say all of this stuff out loud. “So believe me when I say that nothing, _nothing_ I ever find out about your past, or your family, or the life you used to have, is gonna make me run away from you. Nothing you’ve done, and nothing you do, will ever make me leave you. Not a goddamn thing, Daryl. Not ever.” He pauses, one last time, because he knows Daryl is paying attention already, but he really wants to drive this point home. “You’re stuck with me, Daryl. Forever.” 

Daryl doesn’t say anything for a long time. Rick doesn’t mind. He’ll sit here for as long as he has to, until his lover is ready to pull away from him and face the world again. 

When he finally does, it’s slowly, and with obvious reluctance. The younger man scrubs a hand over his face and then licks his lips. He’s still got one hand wrapped up in Rick’s jacket, but he’s far enough away now that they can meet each other’s eyes. 

Rick makes his as soft and accepting as he possibly can. It’s not hard. He has a world of devotion and patience set aside for this man. Always has. 

“Didn’t make up my mind.” Is what Daryl says first, muttering the words while tracing patterns in Rick’s week-old beard. 

“What?” He asks, because while he’s usually better than most at following Daryl’s thought process, that one hadn’t tracked. 

“Said it was like I made up my mind to see you through your shit.” Daryl repeats his words, and Rick tilts his head curiously, silently encouraging him to go on. “Didn’t.” He repeats, his gaze darting back and forth. “Wasn’t like I decided.” He clears his throat and settles those cobalt blues square on Rick’s. “Just fell in love with you.” 

Rick’s heart skips, and tears well to his eyes so fast that he’d be startled by it, were this any other moment. “Daryl.” He breathes in a rush. And then he grins, wide and bright around his tears. “I love you so much. God, I feel like I’ve loved you forever.” 

Daryl nods, because he must feel it, too. This draw between that’s like a thousand different lifetimes all rolled up together, connecting them in ways neither man fully understands. “Love you, too, Charger.” He runs a single finger down his chin, then presses his thumb against his bottom lip. “Love you, too.” He says again, purposefully this time. “Rick.” 

The detective’s heart swells. The kiss that follows is love and passion and warmth and fortitude, all at once. It’s the two of them, the way they’re always meant to be. Their whole relationship, everything they mean to each other, everything they are, gets boiled down to that kiss, that joining of souls in a deserted alley outside of a police station in downtown Atlanta. They’re so many things, the two of them together, but what Rick thinks of first, when his brain gets back to thinking, is heat lightening; a beautiful display of power that comes at absolutely no cost at all.


	32. Interlude

**“Love isn’t a fact, y’know? Love… It’s a hunch at first. And then later it’s a series of decisions. A lifetime of decisions. That’s love.”** \-- Welcome to Night Vale

 

***

They drive home together that afternoon in Rick’s car. 

Daryl had worried about leaving his bike at the station, but the older man had said, _“Ford won’t let anything happen to it. Not today.”_ And when that hadn’t been quite enough to soothe his lover’s worry, he’d placed his hand over Daryl’s heart and whispered, _“Don’t think you’re good right now, to ride. Please.”_ And the other man had relented almost instantly. 

Daryl doesn’t say much on the drive back to the house. Rick doesn’t press him. 

When they get there, Carol’s sitting on the couch in the living room reading. She looks up when they enter together. Daryl doesn’t spare her a glance, heading instead straight upstairs. Rick hangs back for a second, knowing that the woman they share their lives with deserves an explanation, and that it’s going to be on him to provide it, since Daryl’s clearly not in the right headspace to offer anything else to anyone right now. 

“Do I even want to know?” She asks warily, after they’ve both watched the mechanic disappear. 

“Probably not.” Rick sighs. “I’ll let him tell you the whole story, later, but he’s a little…hurt, right now.” 

She sits up straighter immediately, looking scared. “Did he crash the bike?” 

Apparently Rick’s not the only one constantly worried about that. 

“No.” He shakes his head. “No, nothing like that. It’s not physical. This guy…this guy Daryl grew up with showed up today. It just hit him hard, seeing him, and listening to him talk about…well, a lot of stuff.” Rick runs a hand through his hair. “I really don’t know how much I should say.” 

“That’s plenty.” Carol assures him, smiling gently. “Go take care of him, Rick. I’ll handle the kids and dinner tonight.” 

“Are you sure?” He asks. He’s been doing more lately, ever since he’d realized how hard it is, having Sophie and Carl both in the house together. He doesn’t want to shirk his responsibilities, though he knows he will. As long as he’s positive that the kids are taken care of – which, with Carol they will be – he knows he’ll spend the rest of the day, all night, and however else long Daryl needs, with his lover. 

“Of course,” Carol nods. “He doesn’t take care of himself, most of the time. That’s gonna be your job from now on, Rick. Go do it.” 

It feels like an order and blessing, all rolled into one. 

“Thank you.” He says sincerely, before retreating upstairs. 

He finds Daryl laid out on their bed still fully dressed, save his shoes, which he’d kicked off out of habit as soon as they’d come through the front door. He’s on his side with his head buried in one of the pillows, but the bed itself is still made. 

“You wanna make a fort?” He’s not sure what prompts him to say those particular words, except that Daryl’s pain feels deep and emotional enough that something as pure and innocent as a pillow fort seems like the only thing that might help. 

He’s elated when the question gets his lover to chuckle softly. “Are you twelve?” He counters, but rolls over so he can see Rick standing at the foot of the bed. 

He shrugs. “Tell me what you want.” 

Daryl seems to think about it, face displaying the myriad of thoughts running rampant through his mind. He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and gnaws on it for a spell. “I don’t know.” 

Rick’s been watching Daryl since the day they met, studying his every expression and nervous tick, and he knows his lover is lying. “Yes you do.” He prods, though it’s gently and with no trace of accusation. “Tell me. C’mon. You love me, remember?” 

Daryl grins at that. “Gonna wanna hear that a lot now, aren’t ya, Charger?” 

“Yeah.” He agrees playfully, moving forward to sit on the edge of the mattress and reaching out to run his fingers over the sharp bones in Daryl’s ankle. He takes a deep breath after a moment, and amends seriously, “No, Daryl. Only as often as you want to say it. I already knew. Long before today, I knew.” 

“Yeah?” He questions, sounding impossibly young with only that single word. 

“Oh yeah.” Rick assures him, remembering every pained but heartfelt _me, too_. “Love hearing it. Don’t get me wrong. I love hearing it almost as much as I love you, but you don’t have to say it any more than you want to. I’m never gonna forget.” 

“I do.” The other man says, after a few seconds. “Love you more than anything. More than I thought…Y’know, I thought I knew, what it was. What love was. There was someone, before you. But he didn’t…I mean, it was something. Maybe it even was some kinda love. But it wasn’t _this_. Wasn’t anything like me’an you at all.” 

Rick nods a few times, taking in those words. “You mean Martinez?” 

“No, oh fuck no.” Daryl shakes his head at once, face scrunching up annoyedly. “Martinez was the first guy I ever fucked, and we went through some shit together, but I didn’t ever think I loved him. Not even back then, when I was a kid.” 

“Oh,” Rick just nods, absorbing this new information. “Okay.” 

“Was a different guy,” Daryl sighs, tracing the stitching on the comforter beneath his fingers absently. “I knew him in Mississippi. Was the guy I met up with, after that ranch in Colorado. Told you about that, right?” 

“Yeah.” Rick says, because of course they both remember. “Stayed with him for two years, right? Lived all over the East Coast together?” 

“Yeah,” Daryl agrees. “Then another two years. Two and a half, more like, in Missouri, right before I came back here.” 

That’s more new information, and Rick processes it slowly. “I know I’ve said it before, but I can’t imagine living the life you did, Daryl.” He chooses his words carefully. “All that pain. All those years you spent on your own. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known.” 

“Stop,” Daryl pleads, but he pushes his face farther into the pillow as he says it, sounding more embarrassed than anything else. 

“No.” Rick says easily, and then climbs up onto the bed all the way, laying out right next to his lover and using one hand to comb his fingers through those messy, soft, dark-blonde locks. He tugs gently on a strand. “Love this.” He says. Then he moves his hand to trace down Daryl’s face, runs a single fingertip over that little beauty mark above his lip. “And this.” 

“God, you’re a sap.” Daryl groans, moving his own hand up to bat halfheartedly at Rick’s. 

The detective catches the appendage, and presses his lips softly over the North Star tattoo at the base of his thumb. “And this.” He mutters into the skin. 

“Ever tell you where I got that one?” Daryl asks. Rick promptly shakes his head and quirks an eyebrow, eager to hear about it. “Was on a fishing boat off the coast of Main. Had a job there, and this guy I worked with got drunk as fuck one night and wanted to take it out. I wasn’t sober either, so I figured, what the hell? He gave me that halfway through our second bottle of vodka. I did one for him, too – his girlfriend’s name, right over his heart.”

Rick laughs at the tale. “I wonder if they’re still together.” 

“Funny thing.” His lover says. “Ran into him a couple years later. They’d split not long after that night, but the next girl he dated had the same name. Even spelled it the same. And it was weird. Emily, but spelled E-M-E-L-I-E. It’s German, I guess.” Daryl shrugs absently, but then catches Rick’s gaze. “Far as I know, the two’a them are still married.” 

Rick hums. “What are the chances?” The question is rhetoric, but Daryl’s eyes go tellingly soft. 

“One in a million, probably.” 

They stay like that for a while, lying next to each other fully dressed on their bed in the middle of the afternoon. “You wanna tell me now?” Rick asks quietly, sometime later. “What you want?” 

“This.” Daryl breathes, and shuts his eyes almost immediately around the confession. “Just stay with me here for a while.” 

“Yeah.” Rick sighs, expression warm when Daryl opens up to him again. He touches his face, the side of his neck, traces firm fingers up and over his ribcage. “You don’t ever have to be afraid to ask me for that, Daryl.” 

His lover doesn’t respond, but Rick sees it in him when something relaxes. And, if he plays his cards right after this, maybe that particular chord of tension will never return. 

***

They doze together like that for a few hours, drifting in and out of awareness, coming to here and there to nuzzle fondly at one another. Rick would have been content to spend the rest of the night like that, but later – when the smell of cooking food and the muted sounds of the rest of their family interacting together downstairs drifts up to them – Daryl pulls himself out of bed despite Rick’s protests. 

“Don’t wanna hide out,” he mutters, when the detective tells him that Carol has everything under control, and they don’t have to rejoin the world yet if they don’t want to. 

Rick studies him carefully. He looks tired, to be sure, but there’s no anger or grief visible in him anymore. It makes the older man smile warmly. 

They change clothes, since the stuff they’d been wearing before is understandably rumbled, and Rick catches himself staring when Daryl tugs his shirt off. 

Before he can stop himself, the detective is on his feet behind where the younger man is standing at the dresser, digging around for a clean shirt. He touches the scars on Daryl’s back with the same reverence he had the first time he’d ever seen them up close. 

Daryl freezes under the gentle brush of his fingertips, but doesn’t tense. 

“I’m sorry,” Rick breathes into the silence. 

Daryl’s shoulders sag and he huffs. “For what, Charger? Ain’t your fault.”

“I know.” Rick says. Because it’s not. Some of it is Abraham Ford’s fault, and he still feels furious on his lover’s behalf because of that, but that’s not why he feels guilty right now. “I’m sorry I let Martinez tell me about it. I should’ve stopped him. Was your story, not his.” 

Daryl takes a deep breath but doesn’t turn around. Rick continues tracing the angry marks on his lover’s back, looking at them now with a deeper understanding than he’d had before. “Was kinda his story.” Is what Daryl says first, sounding exhausted but not angry. “That night he told you about, when I went to his house after my old man…I know that fucked him up. Wasn’t fair, puttin’ something like that on him. I still remember him like…he was older, y’know? Two years feels like a lot when you’re fourteen. Hard to remember he was just a kid, too.” 

“Yeah.” Rick agrees, though honestly, he hadn’t really thought about it like that before. But Daryl’s right, and he feels a deep sympathy then, for the man he’d met today. Martinez obviously still has issues – that he’d been high and drunk, and had willingly got caught up in a bar fight today proves that well enough. “I wish you wouldn’t blame yourself for that, Daryl.”

The hunter just shrugs, the demons on his shoulder dancing under the movement and the scars. 

“I know it ain’t fair to judge, ‘cause y’all are different, and I don’t know much of that man’s story,” Rick starts, speaking calmly and sure, “but it seems to me like you got dealt a worse hand, but you got passed it. The life you have now didn’t happen by accident, darlin’. Martinez made his choices, and the way he’s living now…that’s not on you.”

“Maybe.” The younger man concedes. Silence stretches between them. Rick leans forward and places a smattering of light kisses on the valley of Daryl’s shoulder blades, and smiles to himself when his lover shivers at the contact. “You couldn’t’a stopped him tellin’ you that story, neither, Rick.” Daryl adds, using his first name because this is important. 

Rick hums, neither confirming nor denying. He feels guilty mostly because he’s glad Martinez had showed up here today. He might have never known, otherwise, the history between Daryl and Abraham. He’d have never known how much he truly hates the man he’s been working with for nearly a year.

“Let’s go downstairs.” Rick finally decides, pulling away resolutely. “See the kids.” 

“Yeah.” Daryl agrees. “Sounds good.” 

***   
***

Once Rick and the kids are settled in the living room – the three of them splayed out on the couch and the floor around the coffee table, going over homework assignments and talking – Daryl wanders into the kitchen. 

Carol’s just pulling a roast out of the oven, shutting the door with her hip; looking all the world like the picture of domesticity. She smiles softly at him when she turns around and sees him there, tossing the oven mitts on the counter and then leaning against it. “Needs to cool for a bit.” She tells him. Daryl’s not particularly hungry, but he’s pretty sure her words have a different purpose. She proves him right within seconds. “Come out on the porch with me for a minute?” 

Daryl takes a deep breath and nods. There’s something about their back porch – it’s where so many of his family’s meaningful moments tend to happen. 

The sun is low in the sky and the air is cooler than it had been this afternoon; not cold, though. It’s barely spring, but the Georgia heat has already started to settle down around them. 

Carol heads to one of the potted plants on the porch railing and pulls out a pack of cigarettes; hers, not his. She lights one with the small Bic she also stashes there. She takes a single drag and then hands it to Daryl, smiling when he accepts it with a grateful nod, and then lights another for herself. This side of the porch can’t be seen from any of the windows in the house, and they both perch on the railing, leaning against respective pillars across from one another. Carol wraps an arm around her waist, while Daryl puts one foot up on the railing, and rests his forearm against his knee. They’ve sat here like this so many times together that just the familiarity of it is comforting. 

She says nothing to him, content to smoke in silence for as long as it takes him to want to open up on his own. 

“How’s things with Axel?” He asks, halfway through his cigarette, realizing that he hasn’t checked in with her about that in a while. 

She quirks an eyebrow, but doesn’t call him on stalling. “He’s a good man.” She answers instead. “Treats me well. I don’t know how much longer it’ll last, though.” 

“Yeah?” He’s not too surprised, but still asks, “Why’s that?” 

“Just not a lot of spark, there,” she shakes her head, but doesn’t sound upset. “Was nice, being with a man like that. A kind, patient one. But it’s just not…”

“Love?” Daryl guesses. 

“No,” Carol agrees, “it’s definitely not that.” 

“You’ll find someone.” Daryl tells her. He’s not saying it just to be supportive – he knows that she will. With the strength that she’s discovered within herself after Ed had gone to prison and then died, and the love she has in her heart for those she considers family, she’s bound to attract many men. Hopefully only good ones, but Daryl will always be around, just in case. 

She hums in response, watching him with a curious, concerned expression. Daryl can’t ever deny her when she looks at him like that. 

“Guy I knew, from down home, he came into town today.” He starts, not bothering with a lead up. “Heard I was back in the state, wanted to give me shit about it. He was high as fuck. Told Rick about Ford. ‘Bout what he did, when I was a kid.” 

Carol nods once, slowly. “Well, I won’t say I’m not glad that Rick knows now.” She admits after a beat. 

Daryl smiles a little. Carol’s unfettered honesty is another thing about her that someone, someday, will fall in love with. 

Carol had met Abraham once, not long after she and Sophia had moved in with him. The stress of having a child around for the first time in his life had had Daryl more on edge than usual, and since he’d already pledged to never take emotions like that out on either of them, he’d found himself snarling and snapping at Ford, in a way he hadn’t for a while, even back then. Carol had unintentionally been witness to some of it, and she’d been so raw then, fresh off the heels of her relationship with Ed, that Daryl had felt guilty for letting her see that side of him. He’d told her that night, the history between him and Ford. 

That’s why Abraham doesn’t come to their house, anymore. Carol respects the perimeters of his and Daryl’s relationship as it exists now, but openly doesn’t like the man much herself; _“If you say he’s made up for it, then I believe you,”_ she’d told him once, _“but I’d rather not see him around here.”_

“Rick’s pissed as fuck about it.” Daryl tells her now. “I know,” he interrupts, when she opens her mouth to comment on that, “you think he deserves it.” 

“Because he does, Pookie.” She says simply. 

“Was a long time ago.” Daryl sighs, stubbing out his cigarette on the banister and debating whether or not he wants to get up to grab another. “Man’s done a lot since then, and not just for me. Y’know he joined up with the army after I left Georgia? Got honorably discharged after some sniper shot him in the ass. And he testified for Merle, at the trial. Probably the only reason my brother didn’t get a life sentence was cause’a what Ford said that day.” 

“I know family’s important to you, Daryl.” She acknowledges, “but making amends doesn’t erase what that man did to you.” She takes a deep breath. “If Sophie had ever gone to the police like that, and been turned away…I…” 

“I get it.” Daryl says immediately, when he hears the emotion threatening to overwhelm her. “I ain’t defendin’ the bastard.” 

She sniffs, and then smiles at him. “You actually are.” 

Daryl scowls. “Shut up.” 

Carol laughs. “Just admit it, Dare,” she presses, “You’ve mellowed a lot since you came back to Georgia. It’s been good for you, settling down. Me and Sophie, Rick and Carl, we’re all a part of that now. A part of _you_. And you can’t be surprised or upset that we hate a man who hurt you like that.” 

“Ford never hurt me,” Daryl tells her. She looks immediately like she wants to argue, but Daryl just insists, “He didn’t. He was a stupid bastard, and an ignorant fuck, but he ain’t never laid a hand on me.” 

“There’s more than one way to hurt someone.” She responds calmly, and Daryl just sighs. 

Realizing that they’ll never agree entirely on this, they decide to let the matter rest. Carol respects that it’s Daryl’s choice, how he wants Ford to be involved in his life now, and will accept any decision he makes. 

Rick, however, is less Zen about the whole matter, and later that night, after they’ve all had dinner and the kids are fast asleep in their respective bedrooms, the adults sit together in the kitchen and discuss the matter for far longer than Daryl thinks any matter should ever be discussed. He hates talking stuff to death, he really does, and after twenty minutes of Rick and Carol going back and forth about Abraham and what a bastard he is, Daryl quietly leaves the kitchen without saying a word. 

He pokes his head into Sophia’s room once he gets upstairs, standing in the doorway for a few minutes just watching her sleep, letting himself be calmed by the peacefulness of it. He lets himself feel pride, too. Pride that he had helped bring this calmness to her world. She’s gone through so many terrible things already, but Daryl will be here for the rest of her life to make sure she never experiences any more. If he can do that, if he can protect her, then his past doesn’t matter so much. Everything that he’d gone through to get here is a shadow cast off of nothing, so long as something good comes of it for her.

It occurs to him then, standing in Sophia’s bedroom, while Carol and Rick carry on downstairs discussing the various ways in which they’d like to defend and protect him against his past, that this, _this right here_ , is pretty much everything he’d ever dreamed about when he was a kid. This is the life he never thought he’d be worthy of. 

“Hey,” the word is soft behind him, but still makes him jump. It’s the third time since he’s known him that Rick has managed to sneak up on him, and Daryl really should have known, after that first time at Dale’s when they’d barely been more than strangers, that something was bound to come of Rick Grimes being in his life. 

Daryl backs out of Sophie’s room with one final glance and quietly shuts her door behind him. “Hey,” he responds to his lover. 

He doesn’t know what Rick can read in his expression, but something there causes the older man to step closer and rest his hands immediately and gently on Daryl – one on his hip, the other cupping the side of his face. “I’m sorry Carol and I got caught up like that.” 

Daryl just shakes his head, trying to tell him without words that it isn’t about that, that their devotion to him isn’t an issue. “I get it,” he finally manages. “Just can’t stand goin’ in circles like that, Charger.” He takes a breath. “Y’all can, though. Ain’t gonna hate ya for talkin’ it to death.” 

Rick smiles and then tugs at him little, until their mouths meet in a kiss that’s tender and passionate. Daryl lets his body relax into it, pressing fully against Rick and trusting the other man to hold his weight. Rick does so like he’s not even aware that it’s a task that’s been asked of him, just something automatic and easy. 

They pull apart after a while – Daryl’s not sure how long, exactly, only that his lips feel swollen now and there’s a familiar chord of desire tingling, but not pulsing, through him; a muted, comforting thing. 

“You stayin’?” Daryl mumbles, focusing on the feel of Rick’s facial hair under his fingers and trying not to think about how loaded his question really is. 

When he looks, though, his lover is just smiling softly. He knows he shouldn’t be surprised – not after all this time, and especially not after what had happened between them already today – but still, his gut clenches hard. 

“Of course,” Rick says, easy as nothing else in Daryl’s life ever has been. “Hey.” Rick grabs his hands and pulls him back, as soon as Daryl starts to walk away. 

“What?” The younger man asks, not afraid at all. 

“I love you.” He says, and it’s so simple. Daryl can see now, how simple it really always has been. 

“Me, too.” He lifts Rick hand to his mouth and kisses the jut of his knuckles. “I love you, too, Rick.”

**Author's Note:**

> Truth be told, I've never written a story quite like this one before, and I'm so excited (also super nervous) to know what you guys think!


End file.
